


Love to be Chased

by CDRomelle



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Drama, Body Worship, Choking, F/M, Golden Deer Route, Light breathplay, Marijuana, Masturbation, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oral Sex, Post-Timeskip, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Vaginal Sex, background cyril/lysithea, background marianne/dimitri, but also some sexual intimacy too, claude thirst, hilda character study, spoilers for Golden Deer route, the smut is here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-11-07 18:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CDRomelle/pseuds/CDRomelle
Summary: She pushes open the door.“Claude, are you in--”Claude turns.He’s standing in the middle of his room, completely shirtless, his wide-sleeved yellow coat in his hand as if he’d just taken it off, and Hilda knows in that moment that she hates this coat, despises it for what its puffy, relaxed fit had been hiding.





	1. The Reversal

Five years have passed, and the monastery is...disgusting. 

Rubble and weeds everywhere, layers of dust on everything. The water coming out of the taps is yellow at first, every time you turn the faucet, and even when it goes clear after a few seconds, how can you trust it? 

After the sink ordeal, she can’t even bring herself to look at the laundry room. Only problem is, her clothes are filthy from the journey here, and in desperate need of washing. 

Only one thing for it. 

Hilda has to find someone to do her laundry for her. 

She pokes her head out of her room. Marianne has gone out to the stables hours ago but Hilda checks her room just in case. Lorenz isn’t around either. Maybe some of the other Golden Deer are in their rooms downstairs, but that’s  _ far _ , almost halfway to the laundry room, and defeats the purpose. 

Claude probably isn’t in his room either--you could never tell where he might be--but she might as well check, since she’s up and all. 

She pushes open the door. 

“Claude, are you in--”

Claude turns. 

He’s standing in the middle of his room, completely shirtless, his wide-sleeved yellow coat in his hand as if he’d just taken it off, and Hilda knows in that moment that she hates this coat, despises it for what its puffy, relaxed fit had been hiding. Flat abs and the gentle swell of pectorals, dusted with fine black hair. Shoulders corded with ropy muscle, broad but not intimidatingly so, accentuated all the more by the trim waist to which they tapered. And attached to those wiry shoulders--Hilda has seen more impressive biceps in her life, but Claude’s lean, muscled arms look almost disproportionately thick on his sleek figure. 

All of this has been under that wretched yellow coat this whole time?

“Uh, Hilda?”

Hilda jumps. 

Claude grins at her, still holding his coat bunched in one long-fingered hand, his other hand on his hip, right next to the divot between his abs and his hipbone that disappears below the waistband of his trousers. 

“Did you want something?”

“Uh, yeah, um. Are you--looks like you’re doing your laundry?”

_ Get it together, Hilda!  _

“Oh.” Claude looks at his coat. “I wasn’t going to. But that’s a good idea. Did you want to go together?”

_ Yes.  _

“Oh, noooo, what’s the point in that?” This was safer territory; she knew this terrain. “If you’re already going, you might as well just take mine as well.” 

“Hm.” Clade stretched his arms over his head, as if they were just chatting at the training hall, except he’s  _ shirtless  _ and the motion makes everything on his body  _ ripple _ , and it takes every ounce of self-possession Hilda has to keep her mouth from swinging open.

“I guess I can do that for you,” says Claude. “But you’ll owe me.”

“Oh yeah?” Her heart pounds. She cocks her head to the side, letting her hair swing over her arm. “Owe you what?” 

Claude lets his arms swing back down to his sides. “I need a few books from the library, but Seteth says if I bring them back late he’ll revoke my library privileges, which is an insane thing to do in the middle of the war, by the way, but that’s Seteth, so...” With an aggrieved sigh, he strides to his desk, picks up a piece of paper, and hands it to a thunderstruck Hilda. “So can you go check out these books under your name for me?”

“O-oh!” Hilda takes the list from him using only her thumb and pointer finger. “I’ll tryyyy, but I don’t often find myself around the library. Maybe you could walk with me?”

“Ah, Seteth might figure it out if he saw us together. I’ll do your laundry, you get me those books, deal?” 

“Claude, this--this isn’t how it works!” 

“How what works? Oh, wait--” Claude’s grin hitches, and his eyes go big. “Don’t tell me you see me as just one of your boys?” 

“Whaaaaat, no way. We’re--”

Claude moves toward her, and she knows for a fact that he hasn’t grown in the five years since they saw each other, so why does he suddenly seem taller than he ever has before? 

“Hilda,” he says, and damn him she can’t tell if his seriousness is real or not, “we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Friends,” she squeaks. “Sure.” 

“Great!” Claude stretches again, and she’s suddenly, embarrassingly aware of a warm ache between her legs. And then-- _ and then _ \--he  _ winks _ at her. “Thanks, Hilda.” 

Hilda gets the hell out of there. 

Back in the safety of her own room she paces up and down the dusty floorboards, running her hair through her fingers as she tries to figure out what the hell just happened. All that stretching and winking and being hot--that had to have been flirting, right? He was practically doing a Sylvain impression at her. But then… “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

_ Friends? _

Well of course they’re friends. Back in school, Claude sometimes gave her shit when she asked him for favors, but he still did the stuff. In return, she helped him out when she felt like it. Which is more than she did for the other boys she had wrapped around her finger. The most they got was a kiss or sometimes a hand job, stuff that was easy to give. “No sweat” was literally the entire idea. 

But this… what the hell is this? 

The next morning, all her clothes are washed, dried and neatly folded in a bundle outside her room. The note attached reads, “Love, Claude.” 

The list of library books stays untouched on her desk. 

The monastery is in such bad shape that even with Lorenz, Raphael and Ignatz doing most of her chores, Hilda still finds herself on stonemasonry duty, lugging rubble up five flights of stairs to rebuild a broken parapet. 

After about a billion trips up and down the stairs, fully drenched in sweat, when she reaches the top of the tower, someone’s already leaning against the wall she built, twirling an arrow in his fingers and looking out toward the setting sun. 

She drops her burden of rocks and points at him. “That rock goo definitely hasn’t dried yet, so if the wall collapses and you die it’s not my fault.” 

“Ah.” Claude straightens, grins at her. “Good looking out.” 

She backs away from him. “Eww, gross, stay away from me.”

His face falls. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m all sweaty and disgusting.”

“Oh.” his expression clears. Then he grins. “How is this worse than you dumping a pile of your dirty laundry on my floor last night?”

“Because I’m not getting anything out of you seeing me like this, obviously.” 

They laugh. At least this hasn’t changed. And instead of going away, Claude moves down to lean against a sturdier part of the wall and throws his hands behind his head. “How are my library books coming, anyway?” Claude asks. 

“I’m working on it. Y’know, Claude, I have some thoughts about that jacket of yours.” 

“Yeah?” He straightens the wide cummerbund keeping the coat wrapped around his hips, yet another layer of fabric hiding that perfect body. “Do you like it?”

“It’s… certainly distinctive,” Hilda says, her nose wrinkled. “But it’s not very flattering, don’t you think?”

He cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just a bit… baggy, Claude. I could tighten it up for you, fit it to your figure. Show off those muscles you have, mister grown-up leader man.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Well, sure! Having the leader of the Alliance in my debt sounds pretty nice.” 

“There it is.” Claude’s eyelids droop slightly. When he smiles again, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Did I ever tell you I sometimes use your tricks to get the Leicester lords to do what I want?”

“Really?” 

“Yeah. There’s no one better at making people chase them than you, Hilda. It made me realize something.”

“Yeah?” This sounds promising. Hilda tosses one of her ponytails over her shoulder, cards her fingers through it. “What’s that, Claude?”

Claude stretches again, then pushes himself to his feet. “Being chased is… pretty fun.” 

He winks at her, and strides off before she can respond. 


	2. Advanced Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of running away, Hilda tosses her hair over her shoulder again. “I am pretty dirty, aren't I. Wanna help me wash off all this mud?”
> 
> That wipes the smirk off Claude's face. “Y-yeah?”
> 
> “Well, sure. Doesn’t it sound fun?”
> 
> “Hilda. It sounds… so fun. But…” His eyelids descend, ever so slightly. “What would I have to do in return?”

All this hard work is unhealthy for a girl like Hilda. She knows this for a fact because, upon learning that an Imperial army marches on Garreg Mach, her first thought was: “But I haven’t even finished fixing the north tower!” 

She’s disgusted with herself. 

Now she’s in the monastery courtyard, wearing that hideous heavy armor that Byleth makes her wear, even grosser now that it’s all dented and scratched from the arrows and javelins that glance and scraped harmlessly off her. 

That demonic beast is going to leave a scratch, though. 

The Imperial army is in full retreat; only stragglers let on the field, if a monster bigger than a barn can be called a “straggler.” 

How Hilda would love to leave the beast to Lysithea, currently shredding a knight in his armor just a few yards to her left. But--Lysithea’s even smaller than Hilda, and she can’t wear armor for shit. This demonic beast will crush her before she can even think about casting a spell. 

But if someone were to distract the beast, so Lysithea could safely pick it off from a distance--

“Ugh,” says Hilda, and charges. 

The beast turns its hulking, stupid head and bares its fangs, its hot putrid breath hitting her like a battering ram, and then it raises its enormous claw, a claw more than twice the size of her shield, and Hilda may have miscalculated this--

The claw smashes into her shield and the shield smashes into her, the rim clipping her in the head. The second strike is spinning and darkness and then Hilda’s on her back, blinking her eyes as another claw descends on her, filling her vision--

She just barely manages to lift her shield in time, and then all the breath flees her body as the shield presses down on her with the force of the beast’s limb. There’s a crunch of metal--the shield is bending in its grip. 

“I don’t have time for this!” 

Purple light blazes through Hilda’s eyelids, and then the beast lets out a roar that makes the ground shake, jangles her teeth in her mouth, and then finally the claw holding her down goes limp as the creature collapses. 

For a moment, Hilda can only lie there, mud and all. “Whew.” Breathing hurts. “Thanks, Lysithea.” 

“Hilda!” 

That’s Claude’s voice, as if from far away. She lifts her head in time to see him vault over one of the demonic beast’s splayed limbs to reach her side. 

“Shit, Hilda, are you okay?”

She folds her hands over her chest. “It got me pretty bad…” 

He falls to his knees by her side, one hand lifting her head, the other skimming over her armor. “Don’t worry. Marianne will fix you right up, just stay with me, Hilda.”

“Will you… carry me?” she whispers. 

“Of course, of course I--” Claude’s hand goes still on her armored stomach. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

She pouts. “Bruises count as hurt.” 

“Holy fuck.” Claude’s shoulders sag; for a moment he tilts his head up to the heavens, his eyes closed, and it almost makes Hilda feel guilty, but then he takes a deep breath and says, “You were really just gonna make me carry you, weren’t you?”

“Aww, can you blame me? What delicate maiden wouldn’t want to be carried to safety by a dashing young duke like you?”

He’s still cradling her head in his palm. She thinks his thumb is stroking her hair. “Why, Miss Goneril, are you flirting with me?”

She laughs. “Why no, of course not! I’m trying to get  _ you  _ to flirt with  _ me _ !”

“Ah, that’s too bad.” He releases her head and stands, holding out his hand. “I was excited.” 

“Aww, come on. I just…” Hilda accepts his hand and gets to her feet. Wipes the mud from her hair as best she can. Then she pitches her voice a bit higher and says: “I just think you’d be better at flirting than me.”

“Nooope.” Claude waves his finger in a tsk-tsk gesture. “Face it--I know all your tricks, Hilda.” 

She pushes out her lower lip. “Are you calling my beauty a trick?”

“Not at all.” He winks. “You’re really pulling off this mud.” 

“Claude!” 

The old Hilda would make her exit now, unwilling to be seen at anything less than her best. But not the new Hilda. Not the post-manual-rock-goo labor Hilda. 

So instead of running away, she tosses her hair over her shoulder again. “I am pretty dirty, aren't I. Wanna help me wash off all this mud?”

That wipes the smirk off his face. “Y-yeah?”

“Well, sure. Doesn’t it sound fun?”

“Hilda. It sounds… so fun. But…” His eyelids descend, ever so slightly. “What would I have to do in return?”

“Ohhhh, I’m sure we can think of something. Get your own damn library books, for starters.” 

“Okay. Well.” He claps a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe some other time.” 

He puts his fingers in his mouth--her heart jolts at the sight--and whistles. A gust of air and then his wyvern swoops past him, low enough for him to vault onto his back. 

Hilda watches him soar away, her mouth agape, only one thought in her mind: 

_ This is all wrong.  _

Something needs to be done about it. 

The something’s name, hilariously, is Klaus. She spots him a few days after the battle in the training hall and made quick but discreet inquiries: he’s a few years older than her, pledged in the service of House Ordelia, had been among the first battalions to arrive once the call went out that the leader of the Alliance was rallying troops at Garreg Mach. 

Klaus is practicing swordplay against a jousting dummy, so Hilda picked up a training sword and started half-heartedly jabbing it into the air. She figures it’d be about ten minutes before Klaus came over and offered to show her how to improve her swordsmanship. 

Five minutes later and this Klaus guy is snug up behind her, his hands over hers, guiding her through a sword-stroke. 

She only has to complain of hunger three times before Klaus asks if she wants to eat at the dining hall together. Not bad. After he’s fetched her a second helping and a dessert, when she asks him if he could come help her move some heavy objects in her room, Klaus gets it right away. 

And if Hilda and Klaus pass Claude on their way out of the dining hall--Claude, who greets them pleasantly, with that smile that doesn’t reach his sharp, knowing eyes--well, what of it? Claude’s loss. She made it very clear to him how to woo her, and if he wants  _ her  _ to chase  _ him-- _ well, that just means they’re incompatible anyway, doesn’t it? Klaus gets it. 

Back in her room, Hilda has barely closed the door before Klaus is kissing her, pressing her up against the wall, his mouth warm and insistent. She tilts her head back, trusts his strong arms to hold her up, and makes her mouth as soft and pliable as possible. Klaus is a pretty good kisser. Good enough that she almost forgets she never got any favors out of him before letting him kiss her like this. Maybe this is what Claude kisses like. 

She turns her head, breaking the kiss. Klaus lets out a huff of air, surprised. “Are--are you okay?”

“Um….” Hilda bites her lip. “Actually, no. I’m sorry, but I actually don’t want to…” 

“Oh, you don’t want--”

“Yeah, no. Sorry.” 

“That’s okay.” Klaus looks bewildered, bless him. “Did I read this wrong, or--?”

“No, no,” she says. “I just… I guess I changed my mind.” 

“Oh. Well, okay. Well, I should go--”

“Yeah, you should go.” 

“Okay. Uh, bye.” 

“Bye.”

Klaus troops out, his face flushed, and Hilda flings herself against the door to close it, then slumps to the floor, one shoulder pressing against the solid hard wood. She can still feel the pressure of lips on hers, the warm unsatisfied ache low in her belly. She’s already forgetting why she sent Klaus away. 

“Fuck.” 

That night, Claude is in her bed. 

It’s where he belongs, the whole hard, muscled length of him, his thick biceps framing her face as he holds himself up above her and his fingers between her legs, so gentle, too gentle, circling her most sensitive place, slow and silky, his green eyes sparkling as he smirks at her. She wants him to kiss her. And he does, he leans down, his fingers still circling, circling, but his lips never reach hers. She lifts her head--typical Claude, make her work for it--but still his mouth is just out of reach. She wants to feel the scruff of his beard on her cheek. Where is he? She can feel him inside her. Why won’t he kiss her?

Hilda gasps as she jolts awake. She’s alone in her bed, panting as if she’s just run up five flights of stairs, sweaty and disheveled and rubbing her thighs together, groggy and hazy with want and alone, totally alone. 

She whimpers. 

“C-Claude…” 

She really thought he’d been there, touching her clitoris with clever fingers, torturing her, but no, just a dream of him was enough to build this ache, to leave her gasping for breath and unable to think about anything except--

Hilda slips a hand down under the covers, tugs up her nightdress. She’s so wet. This won’t take long. 

When she comes, it’s with Claude’s name still on her lips. 


	3. The Plan in Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ahh, there he is.” 
> 
> The chest and stomach and thick, bare arms that have haunted her dreams. The setting sun catches him just then, lighting him up like a saint, caressing the curve of his cheekbone and dipping every fine hair on his arms and chest in liquid gold. 
> 
> It’s almost a shame to touch him, to step between his body and the light that recognizes him as the king he is. 
> 
> Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this listening to "Boys Like You" by Dodie on repeat, which is Claude's song to Hilda if you genderswap it LOL

The Claude dreams only get worse as the weeks go by. 

And they’re not just dreams; Hilda starts skipping training sessions because almost every day, Claude will do something like scrub his fingers over the ridiculous little beard on his jawline, or cock his head in just such a way that exposes the lines of his throat, and then Hilda finds her mind wandering, her thighs squeezing together of their own accord.

A thoroughly unpleasant experience, if you ask Hilda. After all, masturbation is work too. And it’s not like she’s getting anything out of feeling like this. 

Then comes the battle for the Great Bridge of Myrddin. 

On the bridge, the Professor splits Hilda off from the main group to capture a ballista imperiling Claude and their other flying units. It’s a pain, but Hilda’s thick armor means she’s the least vulnerable to arrows of all the Golden Deer—though Raphael could easily take over her heavy armor duties if he didn’t insist on light brawler’s armor that exposed his muscles—so here she goes. 

With the ballista taken, she’s about to signal Ignatz to move in when—

“Greetings, Hilda.” 

She turns. 

It’s Ferdinand. Five years and he’s barely changed at all, except his shoulders have broadened and his fine ginger hair now flows past his shoulders. In his armor, on horseback, holding a splendid lance, he looks like a prince from a storybook come to life. 

“Hey, there, Ferdinand,” she says, keeping her voice playful. Maybe there was still a way to avoid this. In Ailell, Ashe had surrendered after Sir Gwendal was killed. Would Ferdinand do the same if she just stalled long enough for the others to take down Ladislava? “Long time no see. You’re not going to attack a damsel like me, are you?”

He gives a grim little smile. “Would that it had not happened this way.” 

He snaps his reins, and Hilda barely has time to lift her shield before his spear drives into it. She turns her stagger into a pivot and Ferdinand rushes past before turning his horse back around for another pass. 

“You know, Ferdinand,” she calls out, before he can charge again. “Back at school, I thought you and Lorenz were the only sane ones.” 

That gets a real smile out of him. “I came to quite enjoy making you tea, you know.” 

“You would have made a splendid husband,” she says. And she means it. Of the eligible bachelors of Fodlan, who but Ferdinand could have given her the life she wanted? 

“And you would have made a marvelous Duchess von Aegir.” 

It brings a flash of heat to her cheeks. Hadn’t she doodled that in her notebook more than a few times at Garreg Mach? _ Hilda von Aegir. _A lifetime of tea and favors. 

It’s almost a surprise when his lance clashes into her shield again. This time, it pierces through a dent in the metal and its tip finds her side. Hilda lets out a grunt as he rushes past, wrenching his spear free as she stumbles. 

The shield is ruined. She tosses it aside, touches her side. Her gloved hand comes away wet. 

Hilda looks up. Ferdinand’s horse rears up on its hind legs, his lance raised. 

“I truly am sorry, Hilda,” he says, and charges again.

Hilda hefts her axe. 

The training takes over. Classic armored infantry versus light mounted cavalry: hold until every nerve in your body is screaming for you to run, hold a second longer, sidestep, lift your axe and swing. Her side feels like ripped fabric. A horse screams. 

And at the end of it, Ferdinand is dead at her feet. 

Hilda stares. 

“Hilda. Hilda!” 

A thud behind her. She whirls around, axe raised—

It’s Claude, bounding off his wyvern. He takes in the scene with a glance, and his expression hardens. 

“Good work, Hil—” 

“Oh, shut up,” she says, and rushes into his arms. 

Once they get back to the monastery, her dreams are even weirder. 

* * *

Hilda can’t deal with this anymore. 

She’ll do just about anything to stop having to carry all these thoughts. What was it Claude had said? _ “Being chased is… pretty fun.” _

All right. Hilda can do that. 

Just a few things to get out of the way first. For example, war. 

Claude looks surprised to see her in the cardinal’s room at the ass-crack of dawn on Monday morning. “What are you doing here this early?”

“Oh, I’m actually really here for the war council. This isn’t part of it.” 

Claude crosses his arms. “Part of what?”

“What?”

“What?”

“My brother told me you’ll probably want to try and capture Fort Merceus soon, and he said I have to attend all the war council meetings now since I guess I know a little bit about defensive structures. You know, because of Fodlan’s Locket.” 

“Well. Your brother is a smart man.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

The council meetings last all week and are as boring as predicted, though Hilda will grudgingly admit that the constant threat of grisly death does do wonders for her powers of concentration, though it also, kind of embarrassingly, makes Claude’s eyes and hands and throat no less entrancing. 

When finally Friday comes, she feels like a blunt axe. Even Claude looks a little rough around the edges, though he does a pretty good job hiding it from people who lack a refined eye for detail. 

She waits until most of the people have filed out of the cardinal’s room, then saunters up to where Claude sits bent over a map, one hand gripping his thick brown hair just a bit too tight. 

“Hey, Claude. Are you hungry?”

He almost jumps. “Oh. Well, to be honest, not really, but I guess I’d better keep up my strength, huh? Want to go to the dining hall together?”

“Actually, I had something else in mind.”

“Oh?” He looks her up and down, then narrows his eyes. “Have mercy on me, Hilda, I’m too tired to do your chores—”

“No, silly, I made us a picnic basket.”

“You—what?”

Hilda tosses a ponytail over her shoulder and strokes her hair. “Yeah. I thought we could eat together.” 

“Well—” he laughs. “How can I say no to that offer?”

“Great! Meet me on top of the south tower in half an hour.” 

When she gets to the top of the tower, a large picnic basket in her hands and an even larger knapsack on her back, Claude looks surprised to see her. 

“I thought for sure this was a prank,” he says as she lets the knapsack thud onto the floor. “What’s that?”

“Might still be a prank,” Hilda has to struggle to keep her breath even as she pulls out a thick quilted blanket and spreads it on the cold stone floor. “You don’t know.” 

“Fair enough. Prank or no, I’m starving. What did you get Ignatz to cook for you?”

“I’ll have you know I cooked all this myself!” 

He laughs. “No you didn’t.”

“I did, actually!” 

He laughs harder. 

“Look!” She wrenches open the picnic basket and starts throwing little tied parcels of food at him. “Spicy pheasant. Spicy cabbage. Spicy potatoes. Spicy apples. Spicy whatever vegetable this is.” 

“What kind of spice?” His arms overflowing with little parcels, Claude sits down cross-legged on the blanket and goes to work on the string tying one of them closed. “And is the spice intended to cover up any other flavors? The bitter flavor of a vomit-inducing poison, perhaps?”

“Give that here.” Hilda plops herself down on the blanket next to Claude, their thighs and shoulders touching, yanks the parcel out of his hands and undoes the cord to reveal two pheasant drumsticks covered in reddish spice. She picks up both, takes a bite out of one and then the other. “It's that spice the Professor is always getting for you from the marketplace. And I really made this, you asshole.”

“Hm.” He rubs his chin. “All right, I guess I believe you.” He reaches out for one of the drumsticks, but she pulls it out of reach. 

“You should have believed me right away.” 

“Hil-daaa!” He reaches around her back, trying to reach the drumstick. “I’m hungry!”

“Say you’re sorry!”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry for doubting you, Hilda. Please let me enjoy your delicious cooking.” 

“Ohhh, fine.” She hands it over and he wastes no time sinking his teeth into it. 

“Mmph… S’good."

For a few minutes there's just the sound of them both opening up parcels of food and chewing. 

Then Claude speaks up through a mouthful of food: "Let me have a bite of the other one too, to even it out.” 

“You changed your tune fast, huh?”

“They say hunger is the best spice.” He coughs. “Not that this needs more spice, huh?”

“Ugh, don’t tell me I overdid it.” 

“No, it’s great, it’s…” Claude swallows, puts down his nearly-clean pheasant bone and picks up another parcel. “It’s great, Hilda.” 

She smiles her most adorable smile. “Kinda makes you feel chased, huh?”

He nearly chokes on his mouthful of spicy mystery vegetable. “Oh.” 

“Uh oh. Need something to drink? Here, have this.” She pulls out a bottle of ginger beer, strong enough to make her nose feel fizzy. Claude gulps it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down the sliver of upturned neck left uncovered by his ascot. When he finally lowers the bottle to catch his breath, she snatches it out of his hands and performs the most ladylike chug possible. 

When she looks up again, he’s watching her. He pops another mystery vegetable in his mouth. “So you’re chasing me, are you?”

She giggles. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Here, look at this—”

She drags the enormous knapsack toward her and opens it. “Look.” 

Claude leans over, chewing a potato, looking wary again. But when he sees inside the knapsack his eyebrows shoot up. “My library books!” 

“Yuppp. And check this out. To pull it all together—” she pulls a bouquet of flowers out of the picnic basket. “Flowers.” 

He bursts out laughing, but his face is definitely a dusky pink as he accepts the flowers. “Wow. Hilda. I…” His gaze cuts to the side, then back to her. “I didn’t think you were serious.” 

She crosses her arms. “I do stuff sometimes.” 

“Uh huh.” He’s still blushing a bit, but now his eyes rake over her. “I suppose you do.” Claude bumps his shoulder against hers. “Hilda…”

“Yes, Claude?”

“I’ve had this idea for a pretty crazy plan.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t going to tell you, but since you’re chasing me and all… I think I should come clean.” 

“Whatever it is, I’m in.” 

“Don’t say that until you’ve heard it. It’s a pretty risky plan.”

“Hm. Do we get anything out of it if it succeeds?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely. But—” he swallows again, and she’s hypnotized by the angles of his throat, “if it fails, I might end up marching on Enbarr without my most trusted general, and without her there’s no way we come out of this war alive.” 

Half a thought forms in her head, a thought with red hair and blood and another life that could have been lived. 

“What the hell!” Hilda pulls her head back. “Claude, are you seriously talking battle strategies right now? I don’t see what Judith has to do with—”

“I’m talking about _ you, _Hilda.” He nudges her shoulder again, but this time doesn't pull away, his weight leaning against her. “The stakes for us are higher than a school crush. If I mess this up, and you don’t want to fight with me anymore—”

She grabs his face. “Claude. I’m here, aren’t I? I came back. And leaving now would be a real hassle, so I’m pretty much stuck with you for the rest of the war.”

“Even to Enbarr?”

“Even to Enbarr. Now just kiss me already, will you?”

He lets out a little sigh, the curve of his lips just this side of sad, his breath warm and just a little bit spicy. “Well, then—” Their lips are a breath apart. Hilda waits—but still he doesn’t kiss her. His grin widens. 

“Oh, for the love of—”

She kisses him.

Claude’s lips are strong and sweet and they fit around hers so perfectly it draws a whimper out of her. His chest rumbles with laughter as he wraps his arms around her, one hand going to her hair, and his mouth tastes spicy and warm and perfect. 

“Take this coat off,” she mutters, and he chuckles but obliges her, unwinding the cloth belt as Hilda yanks off his ascot, and then shucking off the coat with its cape and pauldron still attached, and then he’s in just a loose yellow shirt that leaves his collarbone and the whole length of his neck exposed. It’s much better, but still not enough. Hilda seizes the shirt’s hem and, ignoring Claude’s surprised grunt, pulls it over his head. 

“Ahh, there he is.” 

The chest and stomach and thick, bare arms that have haunted her dreams. The setting sun catches him just then, lighting him up like a saint, caressing the curve of his cheekbone and dipping every fine hair on his arms and chest in liquid gold. 

It’s almost a shame to touch him, to step between his body and the light that recognizes him as the king he is. 

Almost.

She places both hands on his arms, just above the elbows, and drags them upward, feeling every curve and swell of his biceps all the way to his broad archer’s shoulders until her fingertips met along the ridge of his collarbone. Where to next? Up his neck to cup his face for another kiss, or down to the trim powerful chest with its dark nipples and the promise of a fast heartbeat beneath warm strong skin?

Hilda splits the difference, one hand cupping his pectoral and the other tracing the cords of his neck up to his hair, and he goes willingly into the kiss, his cheeks tinged red but his mouth hungry and insistent, tongue licking past her teeth to draw another breathy little hiss out of her. 

She’s never been kissed like this; never put in the effort to kiss someone like this either, each meeting of their lips a chase for something both so close and so far, so much and not enough. 

Closer—she wants to be closer, but the position is awkward, both sitting next to each other with their legs in the way. So Hilda braces herself on Claude’s shoulders and climbs into his lap. Now her arms can reach the whole length of his back, from his corded shoulderblades to the divots of his lower back. And like this she can feel the hard length between his legs, pressing against her thigh through his pants and her skirt. 

Hilda tilts her hips into his crotch, just a little, and Claude moans; the noise shivers through her like whiskey and she’s got to make him do that again, got to make him feel that way again—

Claude’s arms are around her shoulders, his fingers reaching for the clasp of her dress when she grinds down again, and he fumbles, blunt fingernails scraping across the back of her neck. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, as she giggles and rolls again, so Claude changes tactic and grabs at her bell sleeves, unattached to the rest of her clothes, and starts pulling them off her arms. She helps him out by plucking the lacings loose with quick hands, and then the sleeves are slipping over her wrists and—

“Holy shit, Hilda! Your arms!” 

“Ugh,” she whines, recoiling, but Claude seizes one of her arms in both his hands and holds it up, his thumb tracing the line of her muscles. 

“You’re so strong! I mean, of course you are, but somehow I didn’t expect _ these— _” He bends her arm into a flexing position and Hilda groans. 

“Stoooop, I’m a delicate flower.” But she’d be lying if she said a part of her wasn’t preening under the praise. 

“You sure are,” he says fervently, now kissing her arms. “A gorgeous axe-wielding murder flower. Look at you.” Claude cups her face, his eyes boring into hers. “Hilda. I want you to carry me. Pick me up in your arms like a knight with a princess.” 

“But _ I’m _ the princess!”

“You sure are.” He splays one hand over her upper back, the other tracing her bare arm again. “Gods, you sure are.” 

This is not going quite how she imagined it. Time to course-correct. Hilda tilts her head to the side, toys with the neckline of her dress. “You haven’t even seen my tits yet.”

“Honestly? Don’t know how they could top these.” He squeezes her arms again. 

“Claude!” 

Hilda pushes him onto his back; he goes down with a soft “Oomph” and she settles back on top of his waist, careful to position herself against the hard length clearly visible in his pants. 

She was going to unlace the straps of her dress, but his waistband gives her other ideas. She seizes his belt buckle and pries it apart, pulls the belt out of its loops with a satisfying slide of leather on fabric. 

“Wait, wait,” he says, and she likes that he sounds a little out of breath. “I’m half-naked and you’re still wearing way too much.” 

“Oh yeah. I sup-_ pose _ that’s a fair exchange.” 

He rolls his eyes as she reaches up behind her head to unlace the straps of her dress so they fall loose around her bodice. Now her corset lacings are the only thing keeping her top on. 

He's sure as hell not rolling his eyes now. But she thinks she should be able to get more out of him for this show she's putting on. Hilda pouts down at him. “You aren’t going to help at all?”

Claude laughs and pulls her down into another kiss, so she’s lying flat on top of him, her breasts pressed up against his hard, warm chest. Her heart rate spikes, thudding against his own, and then Claude's hands trail down, down to cup her ass over her skirts, and all of a sudden making Claude take off her clothes is less important now that she herself wants them off so badly. 

Hilda pushes herself up on her elbow and drops one hand to her stomach to pull at the lacings, her head craned to keep kissing him, and he tries to help too but he’s working blind here, so it takes far too long to loosen everything enough that finally, _ finally, _she tosses aside the pink overskirt and then Claude grabs the hem of her black skirt and yanks the whole thing over her head. 

The night breeze bites at her nipples. 

She’s exposed. She’s a little cold. She has his full attention. 

Claude makes a strangled noise and, before Hilda can quite sort through all the feelings racing through her, he flips them so she’s laid out on her back on the blanket and he’s above her, one hand cradling her head to protect her from bumping it on the ground, and his other goes straight to her breast, cupping it, squeezing, rolling the nipple between his fingers. 

“Claude,” she breathes, “Claude… take off my boots.” 

He does it without teasing or protest, and when he returns to kneel over her again he has shucked his trousers and is wearing only his underclothes, just like her. The bulge beneath the cloth is mesmerizing. Hilda reaches out to touch—her fingertips stroke up the length, through the fabric, and the sound Claude makes is breathless and raw. 

Then he leans over, one hand planted by her head—those ropy arms close enough to touch—and with his other hand he touches her mouth, trails his fingertips down her chin, her neck, her breasts, her stomach, to the top of her underwear. He hesitates. Then runs a hand down over the cloth, down to the place between her legs. 

“Oooh!” 

Claude rests his hand there and looks at her, his thumb stroking up and down. “Are we doing this?”

“Claude,” she says, in her best _ tsk-tsk _ voice. “I’m not the kind of girl who begs.” 

He laughs again, low and soft. “Oh, I know. I just…” Without moving his hand from between her legs he leans down and kisses her lips. “Okay. Okay.” With his lips still on hers, he slides his hand beneath the band of her underwear and runs a finger through her folds, and she’s already so wet it’s almost embarrassing, except there’s no time to feel embarrassed because her whole body jolts with his touch. 

Biting down on his lip, Hilda wiggles her hips, shimmies down her underwear, and Claude helps drag them down her thighs and over her ankles, and then he’s kissing her again, his finger still sliding up and down, and Hilda reaches for his waistband and her fingertips brush against the hard curve underneath—

She gets a hand around his dick just as Claude slips a finger inside of her—she gasps, her fingers clamping down—He gasps, breaking the kiss—

“Sorry!” Hilda breathes. “Sorry.” 

“It’s… it’s okay. Ahh…” Claude’s eyes close as Hilda pulls his dick out of his underwear, and then he hooks his thumb in the waistband and yanks his underwear off his body like it’s on fire. 

Through closed eyes Hilda feels hot breath on her face. She has his dick in her hand and he has a finger inside her, his thumb pressing against her clitoris, and for a few breathless moments they just stroke each other, each touch just a little more electric than the last, until—

“Lube,” Hilda gasps. “In the knapsack.” 

“Wha—hah—How many times are you gonna surprise me today?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to commit to a number.” Hey, that was pretty good. She feels good for having come up with that while Claude’s fingers were inside her. Her pride is punctured by the noise she makes when Claude slips out to rummage in the rucksack. 

“Found it.” The pop of a cork, and his fingers slip back in slick and wet with lube. She closes her eyes and lets the sensation take over: the pulsing joy of fullness on the inside; the sweet ache of a neglected clit on the outside. 

A little moan above her brings her back; the sound of an exhale that wasn’t mean to be vocalized. She opens her eyes. Claude’s cheeks are flushed again; the hand not touching her is touching himself. 

Hilda reaches out and pushes his hand aside to run her own up and down his dick, already slippery with lube. It pulses at her touch and Claude’s free hand drops to clutch at his own thigh. 

“Come here,” Hilda says, giving him a gentle tug. 

“Do you wanna—turn over, or—”

“No,” she says, settling in on her back. “I’m comfortable like this.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Claude crawls over her again, one hand coming to rest by her head, and she wraps an arm around his to clutch at his bicep. His other hand positions himself at her entrance. “Ready?”

She squeezes his hips with her knees. “I’ve been ready.”

With a little huff of breath, he slides in. 

It’s a thick, crowded sensation, too much where there once was only herself. She’s holding her breath. She forces herself to inhale. Exale. Wiggles her hips. That feels—not good, per se, but something close to it. She tries it again, the shallowest roll of her hips, and ooh that’s both good and a little painful, stop that for now. So instead she clenches around Claude’s dick, pressing her walls around him. That presses something into the inside front of her vagina, and that, finally, makes her smile. 

“There,” she whispers, and opens her eyes.

Claude is levered above her, his hands fisted in the quilt on either side of her head, his hips heavy and solid against hers and perfectly still except for the little tremor running through his whole body as he watches her. 

“Are you… are you okay?” he pants. 

“Maybe… a little more lube…” 

Right away he pulls out, the tip of his penis still touching her folds, and reslicks himself, then seizes the quilt again to nudge back inside, and this time the side is like butter and she can’t help but let out a wobbly little “Oo-oo-oohh.”

He pants out a laugh, but his arms are shaking and he can’t stop the whine that rumbles low in his chest as he pulls back to slide in again. “Ahh, Hilda, you feel so good, ahh…”

His other hand fists the blanket by her head and she gets her other hand on that bicep, too, bracing herself as he sets a pace, their hips and abs meeting every time he presses in. It’s hypnotic, it’s freeing, it’s brain-melting; everything fades away except the face above her, the green eyes roving hungrily over her body; the thick biceps framing her face; the chest brushing against hers when he bends down for a messy kiss; the hips with that sharp V thrown into stark relief by the setting sun.

“Claude,” she whispers, eyes squeezed shut. “Claude, Claude, Claude, Claude….” 

She throws her arms around his back, fingers exploring the divots of his muscles, and Claude pushes his arms between her shoulders and the blanket, scooping her into his arms. It changes the angle; his thrusts are shallower now, and less forceful, but deeper inside her. Her breath catches, maybe because more of his weight rests on her now, her breasts pressed against his chest, or maybe it’s because he’s pressed his forehead into hers, and she can’t quite meet his eyes. 

“Hilda,” he says, biting at her lip. “Hilda…” 

The only response she can manage is a wail. 

“Ah, fuck.” 

He fists his hands in the blanket again, his thrusts an off-beat staccato, digs his fingers into her hair and pulls, and oh, she can feel how hard he is, it’s almost uncomfortable, he’s going so deep; “Hilda,” he pants, his voice cracking, “Hilda, I’m—I can’t—” and then he gasps, and the gasp turns into a yell, and he’s still moving, she can feel him shaking, and his yell turns into a whimper as he buries his face in her neck with one last shallow thrust. 

And then he’s still, and suddenly Hilda’s breathing is fast and heavy; she’s frantic with the loss of movement inside her, she’s close, close—close to what isn’t clear, not entirely, but the weight of wanting it will squeeze all the breath from her lungs—

Claude lifts his head. 

Supporting himself on his elbows, he buries his hands in her hair and kisses her, deep and tender, and she sinks into it, desperate for any kind of touch, but he breaks off the kiss with a little nibble on her lip and then he pushes himself up—she gasps as he slips out of her—he’s moving down her body, he plants himself between her legs and slips three fingers inside and oh oh his long fingers—

Claude winks at her and lowers his head. 

And licks her, from where his fingers enter her up to the top of her labia. 

Her spine arches so fast that she bashes her head against the ground, hard enough to hurt even through the quilt. 

But it doesn’t matter because he does it again. And again. And again, his fingers pumping in and out in time to his licks, touching her inside and outside, lighting her up from that one sweet secret spot to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her legs are in the air, stretching and shaking, her toes curling, it’s almost too much—maybe it is too much, maybe it’s too much to come from, how can she possibly—

Hilda gasps in a breath. Fumbles for Claude’s hair, gets a fistful. The touch is grounding. Another breath. He’s unrelenting. She pulls his hair in time with his thrusts, and his little half-moan half-chuckle almost makes her lose it again but he puts his free hand on top of hers, encouraging, and Hilda focuses on his hair, how thick it is, how smooth and strong and shiny and brown. 

His fingers direct the beat of all things. 

“Ah… ah… ah… ah…”

It’s all she can say, all she can think, until something clicks, and then: 

“Oh fuck Claude I’m coming, I’m going to come so hard, oh, oh, oh, don’t stop, Claude, you’re so good, you feel so good, you—you—”

And then. 

It shudders through her body, a clench and a release, a wave, a relief. She’s wailing but it doesn’t matter because Claude is still licking, still moving, and it’s radiant until it’s—ooh—too much; she tugs on his hair and squeezes her thighs and Claude lifts his head, smirking, wipes his mouth on the inside of her thigh but she already wants him back, pushes his head back down, and he obligingly gives one last long lick that shakes through her like water from a wet sponge, and then finally, finally, her limbs hit the ground and Hilda is still. Unmoving but for her heaving chest. Her legs are warm and heavy and tingly. 

“Oh shit.” 

Claude nips at the inside of her thighs, then slowly pulls out his fingers— “Ah!” —and slinks back up her body, slower than before, to drop himself with a hearty “Oof!” next to her side. 

Everything is heavy and warm and she doesn’t want to move, but she deigns to turn her head to look at him, hoping he understands what a privilege this is, that she wouldn’t just _ move _ her _ body _for anyone, not when everything is so, so right just as it is. But their eyes meet. Claude moves in as if to kiss her. Hilda pulls away, just a bit—his lips are still shiny with her wetness. He grins. It’s kind of gross, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

He ducks his head again, just a bit, and this time she doesn’t pull back, so he kisses her, and she can taste herself on his lips and it’s—it’s neither good nor bad, just kind of shocking, kind of too much. 

Claude breaks the kiss and sits up to wipe his mouth on the quilt and then grab the nearly-empty bottle of ginger beer. She watches through heavy-lidded eyes as he drinks, then offers the rest to her. She opens her mouth. He laughs deep in his chest as he pours the rest of the beer onto her tongue. 

It’s fizzy. She almost coughs. Then lifts her arms. “Come back here.” 

He obliges, stretching out beside her again and scooping her into his arms. Then he grabs a corner of the quilt and wraps it around them, snug and tight and warm. 

By the time she’s ready to get up, the sun has fully set and the top of the tower is awash in shadow. But she can still see his outline in the dark, lying half on his side, one arm propping up his head. Watching her. 

“Hey,” he says. 

A chill runs through her then, cold and prickly despite the blanket, because only then does it hit her—

If this was about getting Claude out of her dreams, she can already tell her plan was a spectacular failure.

"It's getting cold," Claude says in response to her shiver. "Do you want to, ah, go back to my room?"

"Umm, that's okay, I think I'll just go back to my room."

"Okay." He sits up, ruffling his hair. "I didn't mean for more, ah, anything. Unless you wanted it. I just... you know." He expels a breath, shakes his head. "Wow. Let me start over. I'd really like to share a bed with you some time. That's what I'm trying to say."

"You're so sweet." Hilda kisses him on the nose, then picks up her dress. "But the beds are pretty small, and I'll sleep better in my own, I think."

"Okay." A pause. "Sorry." 

"What are you sorry for?"

"It's like I said." He smiles. "I just don't want to mess this up."

They get dressed in silence. It's the kind of silence that Hilda would normally fill with easy chatter, but for once nothing comes to mind. She lets Claude walk her back to her room, then closes the door on him and throws herself face-first into her pillow.

_I don't want to mess this up_, he'd said. And that was exactly it, wasn't it? There was a _this_, now. A thing that can be messed up, and when it does, poor, sweet Claude will be disappointed.

In Hilda's experience, there's only one surefire way to avoid disappointment.

And that's to make sure there's no "this" to mess up in the first place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh this is the first time I've ever posted smut on the internet??? Gonna go disintegrate into ash now.
> 
> Anyway this isn't the end, i still have a few more chapters planned, so uhhh *Sylvain voice* "Like, comment and subscribe, babes!"  
UPDATE: I added a bit at the end to give more context for where I want this fic to go. My fault for not getting a betareader!!!


	4. Disappointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hilda? You in there?”
> 
> It’s Claude. His voice pitched soft enough that he wouldn’t wake her if she really was still asleep. 
> 
> Hilda says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read this, please go check the end of the previous chapter! I added a few more lines right at the end, just like 100 word or so, a few hours after the initial posting, that give more context to how Hilda feels after sleeping with Claude. That's what I get for not finding a beta-reader!

_ Ten years ago:  _

Hilda was thirteen when she saw her first battle at Fodlan’s Locket. 

Usually, when the Almyrans attacked, Hilda and her mother would run to the fort’s deep, reinforced cellar to wait out the fighting. But this time, as Hilda gathered her things to run, her father’s hand closed on her arm. 

“Hilda. Grab your axe.” 

That’s how she found herself on the battlements, clutching an axe with a pink satin ribbon tied around the hilt. 

“Stay here and watch,” her father had ordered. 

He hadn’t told her what to do if the top of a ladder appeared against the parapet just feet from her position. 

“Hilda!” 

It’s her brother, barreling down the long battlements toward her. 

“Hilda, get back!” 

Instead, Hilda hefted her axe. 

“It’s okay, Holst!” she shouted, louder than she needed to, not loud enough to drown out the roaring in her head. “I’ve got this.” 

She heard the clatter of Holst’s armor as he slowed, and then the ladder against the parapet shook, and a face appeared over the stone wall. 

Hilda froze. 

“Come on, Hilda!” Holst yelled from behind her. “You’ve got this, right?”

“I’ve… I’ve got this,” she whispered. 

The Almyran on the ladder had clambered over the parapet by now. He was young, only a few years older than her, his hair close-cropped except for a few braids fastened by golden beads. A sword, long and curved, flashed in the sun as he swung it over his head. 

Hilda closed her eyes. 

The scream of metal scraping metal, a cry, a wet thud. Silence. 

When Hilda opened her eyes, Holst was standing between her and a dead body. Clutching his bleeding shoulder, where the sword had pierced his armor when he put himself between Hilda and the enemy’s blade. 

That night, their father screamed at Holst for what felt like hours. 

“She said she had it!” Holst protested, but their father was having none of it. Holst was irresponsible, Holst was careless, Holst would have double chores for two—no, three months, that would teach him to look out for his baby sister. When finally Lord Goneril sent his children to bed, Hilda half-hoped Holst would yell at her, too. But instead, her brother only patted her on the shoulder. 

“In war, we have to be able to trust our comrades,” he said. “If you ever need help, just say the word and I will always be there to help you. But if you say you’re going to do something—I need to be able to believe you.” 

“Okay,” Hilda whispered. 

“Promise you won’t try to do something unless you’re sure you can do it?”

“I promise.” 

And Hilda Valentine Goneril kept that promise. 

* * *

After her night on the tower with Claude, Hilda intended to sleep in on Saturday. Yet here she is, just after sixth bell, lying on her stomach in bed and watching the sky turn from dark blue to gentle pink with narrowed eyes. She only gets up this early while on a march to a battlefield, or sometimes back in school when she had early training sessions. But not on her day off. Never on her day off. She can’t even remember what woke her. 

In protest, Hilda lounges in bed until eleventh bell, when finally her growling stomach demands attention. She’s just about to get up when there’s a knock at the door. 

“Hilda? You in there?”

It’s Claude. His voice pitched soft enough that he wouldn’t wake her if she really was still asleep. 

Hilda says nothing. 

“Are you still asleep, or did you already go out? My money’s on ‘still asleep.’ Ah, okay, then.” 

Footsteps fade away outside the door. 

She gives it another twenty minutes before she gets up. 

The dining hall is mostly empty. It’s too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, so Hilda heads into the kitchen to offer her services as a taste tester for the noon meal. Heaps of praise for a slightly misshapen chicken pot pie is a very fair trade for all parties, thank you very much. Hilda saunters out to the gardens with her spoils. 

She’s just about to tuck in when she hears voices: 

“Syrup-him.”

“Close! But a P and an H together make an F sound. ‘SEH-rah-fim.” 

It’s Lysithea and Cyril, Hilda recognizes their voices, but she can’t see them. They must be behind a hedge row. She tucks into her chicken pot pie as she listens. 

“That’s so confusing. Why not just use an F?”

“Because, well… actually, I don’t know.”

“Oh, sorry.” 

“No, that’s okay! I’ll look it up so I can tell you next time.” 

“Thanks, Lysithea.”

“It’s my pleasure, Cyril.” 

A pause. Hilda makes a silent “ooh.” 

“W-well,” Cyril stutters. “I gotta get back to work. Lots to do, you know.”

“I should be returning to my studies as well,” Lysithea says. “Good day, Cyril.” 

“Good, uh, good day, Lysithea.” 

Hilda waits until Cyril’s footsteps have faded before jumping out from behind the hedge. 

“Lysithea!”

“Ahhhh!” Lysithea’s hands glow purple. “Hilda! What the fuck, you scared me!” 

“ _ You _ scared  _ me  _ with that horrible flirting! Cyril’s never gonna ask you out if you don’t help him along a little. As your honorary big sis, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t give you a few pointers—”

“Wait, wait, wait—” Lysithea’s pale face is bright red. “You think I was flirting?”

“Well, weren’t you?”

“Not… intentionally.” 

“Oh! Well then, in that case, you do have some natural aptitude. And clearly Cyril likes you too.” 

“You—you think so?”

“Well, sure! What’s not to like!” 

“Really?” Lysithea’s face lights up, just for a moment. Then she sighs and it’s gone. “Maybe if I had more time.”

“Lysithea!” says Hilda, surprised. “Don’t talk like that!”

Lysithea narrows her eyes. “Like what?”

“Like we’re not gonna make it through the war. Claude may seem like a doofus sometimes, but he’s really smart. He and the professor will get us through this.” 

“I’m not talking about the war,” Lysithea snaps. “I’m talking about after.”

“After?”

“Yeah. My lifespan.” 

Hilda crosses her arms. “What about your lifespan.” 

“You… you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what!” 

Lysithea groans, her face bright red again. “Claude weaseled it out of me a few weeks ago so I just assumed he’d told you, too.”

“Is this about you being scared of ghosts? Because everyone knows that—”

“My two Crests,” Lysithea interrupts, her voice flat. “Are killing me. The strain of having two of them, I mean. I’ll be lucky to see age thirty. That’s what I meant. There’s no ‘after the war’ for me. Not in any way that counts.” 

Hilda opens her mouth. Closes it. “Oh.” And, with a sick twist in her gut: “No. Claude didn’t tell me.” 

“Well.” Lysithea glowers up at her. “Now you know too. I suppose that means everyone will know by dinner time.”

“I can keep secrets!” 

“Prove it, then.”

“Fine, I will.”

Lysithea gives an imperious little shake of her head, tossing back her white hair. “Regardless, now you understand why I can’t just go… go flirt with Cyril. If he doesn’t like me, I’m embarrassed. And if he does like me, then when he finds out about my crests, he’ll be…”

“He’ll be disappointed,” says Hilda. 

Lysithea flinches, then swallows. “Something of an understatement, I think, but I can’t argue with the basic facts.”

A beat. 

“Lysithea,” says Hilda. “As your honorary big sis… I think you’re making the right call.”

“You—you do?”

“Yeah. I mean, I never start something if I think there’s a chance I’ll mess it up. And you… forgive me, ‘mess it up’ is not the right way to say that…” 

“I get the idea.” Lysithea sighs, deep and weary. “Thanks, Hilda. I should have known you would get it.” 

“S-sure.” 

Lysithea trudges away toward the library, her narrow shoulders bowed with too much weight, and Hilda’s stomach lurches and twists. Maybe that chicken pot pie wasn’t worth all that praise after all. 

* * *

Hilda can’t avoid Claude forever. 

He catches up to her on Monday afternoon, when the war council breaks for tea at Lorenz’s insistence. 

"Hi, Hilda."

"Hiiiii, Claude!"

"I got something for you." With a flourish he whips out a small object wrapped in a yellow handkerchief.

"Aww, how sweet of you!" She says it automatically, as she’s said it a thousand times before. The roteness rings hollow even to her own ears. "I—I really mean that."

He snickers. "I'll take your word for it."

Hilda cups the handkerchief package in her hand. "I know what this is. This is one of those hair clips they sell in the marketplace. Clauuuude! Do you know how many of these I have? All I have to do is look sad around the professor and all of a sudden I have two."

"Ah, yes, it is a hair clip, but—just unwrap it, would you? I made some special modifications."

She obliges. And sure enough—she recognizes the clip, but Claude has added bits of yellow and green ribbon, with gold dangly bits like the ones on his belt. And at the center—

"This is the hair bead you wore in school!" Hilda says. 

"You have a good eye," Claude says approvingly. "Ah… may I?"

"Oh! Sure!" 

She turns around to give him access to her hair, but he’s tried to circle around her in the other direction. 

"Whoops—!" An awkward laugh. 

He slips the clip into her hair and fastens it, then stands back to look. 

Hilda pats the clip appreciatively. "But I don't have anything to give to you in return!"

"You don't have to. I just… I just wanted to."

"I know I don't  _ have  _ to, but you muddled it all up with your ' _ you  _ chase  _ me'  _ stuff and now I feel like you're changing the deal again."

A flicker passes over his face. "There's no deal, Hilda, this isn’t, like, a  _ transaction _ —"

“But if you keep doing stuff for me I’ll need to do  _ something  _ or you’ll be disappointed—”

“Hilda—”

"Hey, Claude!" 

It's Leonie, standing in the doorway next to a soldier in light armor. "The scouts just came back. There’s an Imperial army moving to intercept us before we reach Fort Merceus. They’re camped out on—get this—Gronder Field. And that’s not all—”

“Just a second, Leonie, I’m coming.” 

Claude turns back to Hilda. Smiles at her. "We'll talk more later, okay?"

"Oh-kay," says Hilda. 

It isn't until Claude and Leonie have gone that she realizes—

The smile Claude gave her. It didn't reach his eyes. 

Hilda puts a lot of effort into seeming stupid, and maybe she is stupid, but Hilda Valentine Goneril knows one thing: "We'll talk more later" is  _ never  _ a good sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me; Hilda is good and valid don't be mean to her!  
Also me: *is mean to Hilda in fanfic form*
> 
> More Claude in the next chapter :)


	5. Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda finds herself standing outside Claude’s room. 
> 
> She knows he’s inside. It’s late on a weekday evening and, through her closed door, she heard him walk down the hallway. She heard the sound of his door opening and closing and imagined the look of his gloved hand on the knob to accompany the noise. 
> 
> Then she imagined him inside his room, heaving a deep sigh at the end of the day. Taking off his gloves and his boots and his jacket. Then the shirt, for good measure, because why not. And if the shirt is off, why not the pants and smallclothes, and then she’s back on the South Tower with him...

Hilda finds herself standing outside Claude’s room. 

She knows he’s inside. It’s late on a weekday evening and, through her closed door, she heard him walk down the hallway. She heard the sound of his door opening and closing and imagined the look of his gloved hand on the knob to accompany the noise. 

Then she imagined him inside his room, heaving a deep sigh at the end of the day. Taking off his gloves and his boots and his jacket. Then the shirt, for good measure, because why not. And if the shirt is off, why not the pants and smallclothes, and then she’s back on the South Tower with him, aching from the memory of his fingers and tongue between her legs. 

She was just going to slip a finger between her legs and take care of it. 

But now she’s standing outside Claude’s bedroom. All she needs to do is knock and she won’t need to imagine his fingers, his taste, his warmth. 

_ I don’t want to mess this up…. _

Hilda goes back to her room. 

* * *

Avoiding Claude was never a game she could win. 

He finds her at the top of the South Tower one evening, not long after the war council broke for dinner.

“Reminiscing?” he asks from the doorway. 

She turns to smile at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“My ego likes it, that’s for sure.” 

She laughs, using the toss of her head to avoid his gaze. “Well, with apologies to your ego, I’m actually here because of the monastery repairs.”

“Reeeeeeallly.”

She shrugs. “I was in charge of resetting the stones to fix this parapet, but I must have messed it up somehow, because the rock goo is all flaky and parts of it have already crumbled again. I told the Professor, and Raphael is going to fix it tomorrow, but I thought I’d at least carry up some of the rocks and mortar and stuff so it’s easier for him. Hard to mess that part up.” 

“Huh.” 

Hilda stands up, brushing the dust from her hands. “Well, that’s the last trip! I’m so tired, I’m going to bed. Good night, Claude!” 

She’s two steps down the stairs when he says, “Are you avoiding me?”

The words make her stop in her tracks. 

Slowly, she turns and looks up at him, standing at the top of the tower stairs with his back to the sky. She sighs. “Yeah.” 

“Why?”

Hilda sits down on the steps, pats the stone next to her. A moment’s hesitation, then Claude sits down next to her, a careful inch of space between them. 

Time to get this over with. 

“I still don’t have anything to give you for that hair clip.” 

He frowns. “I told you, I don’t want anything--”

“You do, though.” She smiles at him. “It’s nothing to feel bad about. But you do.” 

He blows out a breath. “I don’t know how to convince you that I just... like you, Hilda.” 

“It’s not your fault. Claude, you know me. I’m really no good at any of this stuff. And I don’t want to drag you down with me, so I really think it’d be best if we went back to being friends.” 

Claude puts his hands on his knees, tilts his head up to the sky. Takes a deep, long, breath. When he drops his chin again, his eyes are flat, his eyelids slightly lowered. He smiles. 

“You’re probably right.”

It sends a pang through her, but also a flood of relief. 

“Thanks, Claude.” 

She holds out her arms for a hug. He extends a hand, thinking she’s going for a handshake, so she pivots, but then he does too, and they end up with their palms pressed together like a sad little parody of a celebration. 

Claude smiles. "I thought we said we weren't going to make it awkward."

"You're the one who made it awkward," she huffs.

"Hm."

She elbows him. "I'm still going with you to Enbarr, idiot."

He puts an arm around her shoulder, leans his head against hers. "Thanks, idiot."

* * *

_ Five years ago: _

_ “Hey, Claude,” said Hilda. “What do you think of Marianne?” _

_ They’re both lying on the roof of the student barracks, having climbed out of Claude’s window using the ladder he had made out of unused firewood and stolen rope. Why do you need a ladder, she’d said. You never know, he’d answered with a wink, extending his hand to help her up onto the roof. And she didn’t need his help, of course, but she took his hand anyway, because boys like to think they’re helpful. _

_ Claude took a long draw from the blunt he held between his fingers and exhaled. “She could use one of these.” _

_ “Well, yeah,” Hilda giggled. “Duh. I meant as a person.” _

_ “I mean I like her. Of course I like her. I worry about her.” He took another pull. “She’s been spending a lot of time with Dimitri lately. When they’re together I can’t tell if they’re sad, or… happy to be sad. If that makes sense.” _

_ “Hmm.” Hilda stretched out her hand for the blunt. “Marianne and Dimitri. That might put a wrinkle in my scheme.” _

_ He turns to look at her, his bottom lip pushed out. “You schemed? Without me?” _

_ “I only excluded you because it’s about you, silly.” _

_ His eyes narrowed. “Hilda. What are you up to.” _

_ “Look. Realistically, our future husbands and wives are at this school, right? And you should marry someone from within the Alliance, ‘cuz you’re still kind of an outsider and you need to shore up your standing with the nobles. Marianne’s adoptive father wants her to marry up, so that means either you or Lorenz, and I do not trust Lorenz with my precious Mari. I think you’d be good to her, because if you aren’t I’d have to kill you, and we both don’t want to make me do that.” _

_ “Wow.” Claude folded his hands behind his head. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.” _

_ She shrugged. “It’s just obvious.” _

_ “Okay. What if Marianne and Dimitri decide to cry into each other’s arms for the rest of their lives. Then who should I marry?” _

_ “Lysithea, obviously. Unless you’ve got your eye on Judith von Daphnel.” _

_ “Oh, gods. Gimme that.” _

_ She giggled as she handed over the blunt again. _

_ He made a show of taking a deep, restorative pull, one hand on his chest. “Be still my racing heart.” _

_ “Judith would keep you in your place, wouldn’t she?” _

_ “So long as we are being hypothetical--and me marrying Judith von Daphnel is extremely hypothetical…” He turned his head. “Why shouldn’t I marry you?” _

_ She stifled another laugh. “Because this is about building alliances!” _

_ “Why not an alliance between Riegan and Goneril, then?” _

_ “Be-caaaause.” She rapped his forehead with her knuckles. “I’m already on your side, dummy.” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “Duh. Besides…” She took the blunt back again. “I’ve got my eye on Ferdinand. He already makes me tea at least once a week. It’ll be daily by the end of the year, you wait.” _

_ Claude snorted. “Talk about a love connection.” _

_ “Oh, right, I forgot you’re a romantic.” _

_ “And you’re--” he stretched his arms over his head. “I can’t tell if you’re one-of-a-kind, or if all Fodlan noblewomen are like you, and you’re just the only one who’s honest about it.” _

_ “Well…” She finished the blunt, stubbed it out on the roof shingles. “Either way, what I’m hearing is you think I’m special, so I’ll take it.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is really getting away from me. I just wanted to post some hildaude smut and now it's becoming a Hilda character study??? with a character arc????? Hilda pls.


	6. The Battle of Gronder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda doesn’t want to talk about Gronder.   
She doesn’t want to talk about the fog, or the confusion, the press of the melee and the piles of corpses.   
But most of all, she doesn’t want to talk about what happened at the battle’s end.

Hilda doesn’t want to talk about Gronder. 

She doesn’t want to talk about the fog, or the confusion, the press of the melee and the piles of corpses. 

But most of all, she doesn’t want to talk about what happened at the battle’s end. 

Hilda was on the front lines, at the tip of the Leicester formation as it carved a path through the carnage. She crossed the entire length of the battlefield, protected Claude’s flank as he pursued Edelgard. She saw the Adrestian Emperor fall, saw her warp away before the killing blow, saw her troops form a retreat that started off orderly and ended up a mad, panicked dash south. 

And then Hilda saw him. 

A tall knight in black armor and a thick fur cape, running on foot alone after Edelgard’s forces as if he could take them all by himself. As if there wasn’t already an arrow bristling in his shoulder, blood streaming from underneath the eyepatch blotting out his face. 

She knew him, of course. She hadn’t seen him in the melee but she had heard the screams, the shouted warnings. The boar prince of Faerghus was on the field and he wanted blood. Stay on Edelgard, but watch out for Dimitri.

Hilda was too far away to reach Dimitri now, and she didn’t try. She just stood there as a spear caught Dimitri in the shoulder, then another in the leg. 

She steeled herself to watch Dimitri die. 

Then Marianne appeared. 

Riding Dorte as if demons nipped at her ankles, her hand outstretched to cast a long-range spell. Riding in the wrong direction, past Hilda, toward the doomed prince. 

“Marianne,” Hilda gasped. “What are you doing?”

Marianne couldn’t hear her. In the distance, Dimitri’s body gleamed, alight with a healing spell. But how much good could that do when the weapons that caused the damage were still lodged in the mad prince’s body? 

In spite of herself, Hilda broke into a run. 

Ahead, Marianne dismounted, seized the javelin in Dimitri’s shoulder and pulled. It came out with a roar that Hilda could hear even over the din of the dying battle, the clatter of her own armor. 

Then Dimitri turned on Marianne. 

“NO!” 

Marianne backed away, her hands raised half in protection, half to cast another spell. Dimitri shuddered as the wound on his shoulder closed. He hesitated. 

That’s when a hand axe embedded itself in his shoulder. 

Adrestian knights had noticed the Faerghus prince. Five of them, in red and black livery, armed with axes and lances. 

“Marianne!” Hilda screamed again. She was close, only a few yards away, when an axe bit into Marianne’s side. 

Marianne shrieked, stumbled. A flash of white light and the Adrestian staggered too; Marianne’s Nosferatu had bought her time, and then Dimitri was on the knights like a bear on a pack of wolves. His lance caught the knight menacing Marianne in the throat, then whirled to strike the next. 

“What am I doing,” Hilda panted as she blocked one of the knights from flanking Dimitri, careful not to expose her back to the prince as she hefted her axe. “What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing…” 

“Dimitri!” Marianne cried, and Hilda turned in spite of herself, to see Dimitri lodge his spear in the second-to-last knight. One left. 

“I’ll handle it—” said Hilda.

Then Dimitri charged, bare-handed, at the last knight. 

The knight’s lance caught him right in the stomach. 

“No!” wailed Marianne as the lance emerged out of Dimitri’s back. 

The prince was still standing. He took a step forward, further impaling himself on the lance. Blood and spit on his lips as he snarled. 

Then Hilda cut down the Adrestian knight, and both enemy warriors collapsed to the ground. 

“Help me take out the lance!” Marianne said, running to Dimitri’s side. She knelt in the blood-spattered grass, one hand on the thick wooden shaft. “Can—can you cut it with your axe?”

Hilda shook her head, gasping for breath. “Marianne, we need to go—” 

A small, pale, blood-spattered hand closed over the skirt of her armor. “Please,” said Marianne. “Please help me save him.” 

Later, after the battle, Hilda will wonder why she didn’t do something else. Anything else. Drag Marianne back to the Leicester lines, for example. Carry her, if she had to. Hell, she’ll wonder why she didn’t just leave Marianne to her ludicrous mission, just pretend she had never seen her running pell-mell after a madman in the midst of a massacre. 

But in that moment, Hilda found herself kneeling next to Marianne with her throwing-axe in one hand and the other braced on the lance in Dimitri’s body. 

“Tell me when.” 

“Now.” 

Dimitri made no sound as she cleaved the lance in two. But when she grabbed the broken shaft and pulled he screamed and bellowed like a demon. Surely the retreating Adrestian knights would hear this. More would find them. 

With a little cry of exertion, Marianne cast another spell. “There, Dimitri. That should—” 

Dimitri rose to his knees. 

Hilda and Marianne watched as he got one foot under him, then rose. Took a step. 

And collapsed face-first into the blood-drenched grass. 

“Will you… help me get him up on Dorte?” Marianne whispered. One hand clutching her side, where her armor was dented and pierced. Blood dripped down from beneath the gold plate. 

Hilda groaned. “You are so lucky you’re cute.” 

They certainly made an entrance back at the Alliance camp. 

“They’re here!” Raphael bellowed as they approached the muddy rows of tents bustling with soldiers still reeling from the gruesome fight. “Marianne and Hilda! And—oh shit! Is that Dimitri?”

A figure pushed his way through the crowds to reach Raphael’s side. Claude. His face haggard, eyes wild. Those eyes found Hilda, drank in the sight of her supporting Marianne with one arm and leading Dorte with the other, and for a second his shoulders sagged. Then he opened his mouth—

“ _ LYSITHEA _ ! Where’s our backup healer? Raphael, take Marianne and find Lysithea or the Professor or Lorenz—anyone with some white magic.”

“You got it, Claude.” 

Hilda felt Marianne’s arm slipping out of her grasp. She held on tighter. “Wait… wait…” 

A strong hand on her shoulder. Raphael. “I’ll take care of her, Hilda. Promise.” 

Hilda let go. 

Without wasting a moment, Raphael scooped a faintly protesting Marianne into his arms, and then it was just Hilda and Claude and Dorte.

Claude took Dorte’s reins from her, his eyes on the lump of bloody fur on the horse’s back. 

“Hilda,” he said. “What the hell…”

Hilda was too tired to explain. So instead she pressed her forehead into Claude’s chest and slumped against him. 

“Brought you a present,” she said into his coat lapels. “I think you’re gonna hate it.” 

* * *

Hilda wonders if the smell of blood and moldy fur will ever go away. 

Dimitri still hasn't woken, and with too many other injured to treat, Claude ordered him moved to Jeralt's old office. Now Raphael and Lysithea both stand guard in the hall outside as Marianne frets about the dark room, knocking over lamps and books and papers as she searches for the right vulnerary. 

All Hilda can do is trail in her wake and straighten up after her. Occasionally Marianne will ask her to hand her some medicine, or some bandages, or some water, and her heartbeat will pick up, just a little. 

“Uh, Marianne,” she tries, “Maybe someone else would be better suited to this. I mean, what if I mess up—”

Marianne turns. Her eyes are frantic, the bags beneath them even deeper than they ever were in school. “Please, Hilda,” she says. “There’s no one else.” 

So Hilda stays. One advantage of being this exhausted: her body can’t seem to sustain a racing pulse for too long. Soon she’s able to follow Marianne’s instructions without feeling anything at all. 

Finally, finally, Marianne drops into a chair and closes her eyes. 

Hilda puts a hand on her hair. “Is he—”

“S-stable, I think. I don’t know what else I can do…” 

Hilda doesn’t know either. So instead she tucks a lock of Marianne’s flyaway hair back into its braid. 

"Marianne, why are you doing this?" 

Marianne gave her a strange look. "F-for the same reason you're helping me." 

"But he's—" 

Hilda stops, unsure of what she's about to say. He’s a monster? An enemy? A boy? 

"He's my friend." Marianne's chin juts out in a way Hilda has never seen before. "In school, you and he were the only ones… the only ones…" 

"Hey," says Hilda. She crouches down next to Marianne. "Hey. Hey. C'mere."

That's all it takes for Marianne to sag into Hilda's arms, her face in her shoulder, and wail. 

“There, there. There, there.” Hilda casts her eyes desperately around the room. “You need to sleep. Nope, no protesting,” she says over Marianne’s feeble squeaks. “One sec.” 

Jeralt’s old desk is pushed against the bookshelf-lined walls to make room for Dimitri’s cot. Hilda knocks the lamp and old papers to the ground with a sweep of her arm, then piles the extra blankets onto the desk. 

“This won’t be too comfy, but it’s something. Come on, come lie down.” 

Marianne is too tired to put up a proper protest. She lies down on the desk and is asleep in seconds. 

Leaving Hilda alone with just the muffled sound of Raphael and Lysithea playing Swords-Lances-Axes through the door to keep her company. 

It’s more comforting than she would have thought. 

Hilda collapses into the chair by the cot and looks down at the waxen, gaunt shell of the prince. 

"Guess we got something in common, huh?" she says. "Who would have thought." 

A soft rap at the door. 

"Come in," she whispers. 

It's Claude. 

He scans the room, taking in Marianne’s sleeping face, then looks at Hilda and jerks his head. She follows him out of the room. 

“Lysithea. Raphael,” Claude says when they’re in the hallway. “I need to borrow Hilda, and I’d hate it if Dimitri woke up and the only person in the room was Marianne—”

Raphael pumps his fist. “Good idea, sending in the big bruiser. And I’ll go, too!” He holds the door open for a very pleased-looking Lysithea, and then Hilda and Claude are alone in the hallway. 

“So?” says Claude. “What’s the play here?”

“Huh?”

“With Dimitri. Do you think we can convince him he owes us for saving his life? Because if he really has lost his mind, the backup plan is to use him to get the Faerghus lords on our side. Make them support us in exchange for their prince back.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “I’m gonna need your help, though. If anyone can charm the Shield of Faerghus, it’s you.” 

When Hilda doesn’t answer, Claude leans in. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah… I’m just tired, I guess.”

“Okay.” He frowns. “I really need you on this, Hilda. If we can’t get anything out of Dimitri or the Faerghus lords, our only play is to try to use him as a bargaining chip with Edelgard, and—”

“No!”

He blinks in surprise.

“Claude, you wouldn’t!” 

“Of course I wouldn’t, but if I could make them think I would—”

Hilda stamps her foot. “Just—just don’t.”

“Hilda—”

“Don’t do any of it. Just—help Dimitri because we were friends once. And it’s the right thing to do. And—and that’s it.” 

He crosses his arms, cocks an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect this coming from you.” 

Hilda’s shoulders droop. She’s tired, so tired. “I know,” she says. “I know.” 

“You need some rest. Come on, I’ll walk you back to your room.” 

“Thanks, but… Marianne still needs me, so I’m gonna—” She jerks a thumb back at the door. 

“Wow, okay.” 

“Yep.” She turns back to the door.

“You know, Hilda,” Claude begins. 

She looks over her shoulder. 

Claude waves a hand. “Ah, never mind. See you later.” 

“Later.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! I love MariDimi uwu  
thanks for sticking with this fic please stay with meeeeee


	7. Red and Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Golden Deer prepare to assault Fort Merceus, Hilda reflects on events of the past month.

How fitting that the sunrise is red today. 

Hilda should be lacing up the ties of a hastily-sewn Adrestian knight uniform. But instead, she’s thinking about—

_ Claude, in her bedroom, shrugging off his coat in the reddish light— _

_ “Hilda, we shouldn’t—” _

She shouldn’t. She and the other former Golden Deer are a hard two hours’ ride from Fort Merceus, taking refuge at the edge of a forest whose branches barely obscure the Adrestian flags waving atop tall stone towers in the distance. 

Around her, the others are making final preparations. The trees here are thick enough that she can’t see all of her fellow Golden Deer, but she knows they’re there: Leonie, buckling a red caparison over her horse. Lorenz fiddling with the iron rose he insisted on pinning to his disguise. Marianne tucking flyaway locks of hair back into her braids, her gaze lingering north toward the monastery instead of south toward their destination. 

And Claude—

Claude is entirely out of sight. All she can see is the flicker of white wings through a copse of sturdy sycamores as he bids his wyvern goodbye. 

Hilda and Claude haven’t spoken since that night in her room, the night she fitted him for his Adrestian disguise—

_ Claude, standing on a low stepstool in a crowded bedroom draped with red fabric. His head bowed to look down at the inch of space between her chin and his bare chest. _

_ “Hilda…Hilda...” _

“Hilda!”

She jumps. It’s Lysithea, wearing Adrestian gremory garb. Hilda could have recognized her by her dress hem alone; she had spent hours bowed over it, taking in the skirt by several inches so Lysithea wouldn’t trip in battle. 

“Well?” Lysithea says, impatient already. “I’m waiting for your assessment.”

“Assessment of what?” 

“Of my makeup, of course!”

“Oh!”

_ Three weeks earlier— _

“And you’re not going to make me look vulnerable?”

“Absolutely not.” 

The two were in Hilda’s bedroom, Hilda’s makeup bag open on her desk and Lysithea squirming in Hilda’s desk chair.

“The goal here is… whaddya call it..." Hilda twirled her fingers. "‘Opposite of vulnerable.’”

“Strong. Secure. Tough. This isn’t hard. Capable. Fierce.”

“Stop moving your mouth!” Hilda said. “You’re messing up your lipstick.” 

Lysithea looked mutinous, but for once she did as she was told. Hilda pressed her luck and ‘forgot’ to tell Lysithea she could talk again once her lips were done. 

So when a knock came at the door, Hilda almost jumped. “Who—”

The door opened, and Claude stuck his head in. 

“Hey. Were you serious about the disguises thing?”

“Clauuuude!” Lysithea shouted. “Get out!”

She flicked her fingers at him. Claude used the door to block the lick of black magic aimed at his head, then poked his head back in and frowned at Lysithea. 

“Shh, the grownups are speaking.” 

Hilda had to grab Lysithea’s shoulders to keep her in the chair. 

“We’re doing makeup, Claude, what do you want?”

“Aww, let me see.” 

Before she could protest, he was fully in the room and inspecting Lysithea’s face. 

“Wait!” Lysithea protested. “I haven’t even seen me yet!”

Hilda sighed and held out her hand mirror. “Well, I was just putting on the finishing touches anyway.”

She watched Claude watch Lysithea take in her face: black lipstick, dark purple eyeshadow, pale skin powdered an ashen gray and accented with bluish blush that sharpened her childishly round cheeks. 

“Woah…” was all Lysithea could manage. 

“Do you like it?” Hilda pressed. 

“I… believe so…” Lysithea turned her face, watching the subtle shimmer on her cheekbones. “It’s… certainly not vulnerable…” 

“Want my opinion?” Claude asked. 

Lysithea sighed. “State your opinion, Claude.” 

“You look badass.” 

Lysithea bloomed. 

“Really?”

“Absolutely. If I saw you on the battlefield, I wouldn’t be like, ‘oh no, I’m about to be killed by a baby;’ I’d be like, ‘oh no, I’m about to be killed by a terrifying demon baby!’”

“Told you I could do it!” Hilda crowed, nudging her. 

“You know what?” Lysithea said, arching one blade-sharp eyebrow, “I’ll take it as a compliment. Thank you, Claude. You may go.” 

“But I wasn’t—”

“You may go!”

“All right, all right. But, first, what I really came to say—” He looked at Hilda. “If I were to get you a bunch of Adrestian uniforms, could you fix them up? Make them fit us, patch up any obviously mortal wounds, all of that?”

She tapped her chin with her makeup brush. “How many uniforms?”

“Just us, the old Golden Deer, and our adjutants. The rest of the army will pretend to be chasing us, to help sell that we’re under attack, to put pressure on the Fort to let us in.”

Hilda played with her hair. “Uh, this sounds pretty important. Maybe we should commission an actual tailor…” 

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, just good enough to fool the soldiers manning the gate for a few minutes.”

“You really don’t want someone like me—”

“Hilda!” Lysithea snapped. “You are behaving like a child. Tailor the disguises. If you miss a stitch, you can just redo it until it’s right.” 

Hilda looked at her nails. “Welllllllll…” She stretched her arms over her head, then tapped her chin. “Well, if you really, really want me to do it, I guess I can give it a try.” 

Claude broke into a grin. “Thanks, Hilda.” 

“Oh, you’re so welcome.” 

Claude winked, and closed the door, and was gone. 

_ Now— _

It’s not Claude’s face in front of her but Lysithea’s, once again in her opposite-of-vulnerable makeup. Her skin shimmers even in the red early-dawn light filtering through the trees.

Hilda forces a smile. “You look amazing, Lysithea. If I do say so myself.”

“Thank you, Hilda. It’s not entirely logical, but I actually do feel stronger all made up like this. We’re going to win today.” 

Win. That’s right. Any minute now Claude will give the signal and the disguised Golden Deer will pretend to run for their lives across an open, defenseless plain to a fortress that has never before been conquered by an enemy force. 

It doesn’t feel real. All Hilda can think about is—

The white wings have disappeared from behind the sycamore tree. 

“The air is actually really beautiful here,” says Ignatz, a few yards away. “The trees, and the cool dawn air. It’s…. It’s lovely.” 

Hilda can’t smell trees or dawn. 

She smells—

_ Him, warm and familiar, even over the must and sweat of the uniforms draped over every spare inch of her bedroom-turned workshop. The curve of his muscles in the dim candlelight— _

_ Her own voice, strange in her throat: “What if we die?” _

“Ahem! Claude!” 

Hilda jumps again as Lorenz storms past her and Lysithea toward the sycamore tree. 

“What is it, Lorenz?” comes Claude’s voice, still hidden by the broad gray sycamore trunks and sweeping branches. 

“Our _ guests _are feeling a bit obstreperous this morning.” 

Claude sighs. “Hilda?”

And it is much too early to be hearing her name on Claude’s lips again. Something about the adrenaline, the fear, the looming threat of death; it makes her shiver—

“Hilda?”

“What?” she snaps. 

“Could you go work your magic again?”

A flash of blue fabric through the trees, in the opposite direction from Claude. 

Hilda groans. “I’ll try.” 

_ Two weeks earlier— _

Hilda’s fingers bled as she walked south out of Garreg Mach’s gate on a road framed by dry gray fields. 

She had spent all day ripping out stitches in the Adrestian disguises. The ones she had done were too neat and stylish, far too fine for rank-and-file soldiers’ uniforms. A dead giveaway. Emphasis on dead. 

Holst would get her out of this, she thought as she walked down the road. If she complained to him, told him about her workload, he would write to Claude and demand that his baby sister be given a less demanding task. 

All it would take is one letter. 

Up ahead, only a few hundred yards south of the gate, a lone tent was pitched, its gray flaps waving fitfully in the brisk wind. 

Hilda stopped just outside the entrance. Licked a last drop of blood from her fingertip and then donned her kid leather gloves. Took a deep breath. 

And lifted the tent flap, her hip cocked and her free hand winding a lock of her hair. 

“Sorry I’m late!” 

“Uh-oh,” said Sylvain. “It’s Hilda.” 

“Now, Sylvain,” she said, playing with the tent flap. “What does that mean?”

The tent had a table at the center and four chairs on each side. Claude sat on her right, flanked by Leonie and Lorenz, and to her left Dedue, Ingrid and Felix all stood with their hands resting casually on the weapons at their belts. Only Sylvain was seated, with his feet up on the table. 

“It means Felix and Ingrid were right. You’re gonna try to take advantage of us.” 

“Enough,” said Dedue, utterly stone-faced as usual. “Our request has not changed. Please bring Prince Dimitri to us.”

Hilda raised her hands. “Hang on, hang on, hang on.” She flounced over to the seat between Claude and Leonie, and sat down. “I’m sure Claude’s told you that the prince is too injured to be moved right now?”

“He has,” Lorenz said sourly, “Repeatedly.” 

“But you can come inside and see him!” said Claude. 

“And we’ve said, repeatedly, if you think we’re going to walk into your stronghold you’re fucking insane,” Felix growled.

Hilda turned to Claude. “They think we want to kill them?”

He stretched his arms behind his head. “It’s pretty hurtful.” 

“Less than two weeks ago I was dodging your arrows!” Ingrid snapped. 

“Because your army charged our flank!” said Leonie. 

“It’s been like this since they got here,” Claude said, rolling his eyes. 

“Have we offered an exchange?” asked Hilda. 

A frown flickered over Claude’s face and was gone before Sylvain said, “What kind of exchange?”

Hilda put a finger to her cheek. “Something like… one of you goes into the monastery with Claude and Lorenz and Leonie, and in exchange I’ll stay here with the other three. If your friend doesn’t come back…” Hilda cocked her head to the side, smiled her sweetest smile, “then neither do I.”

Claude gave no reaction, but she sensed more than saw a tightening around his shoulders. 

Dedue fixed her with his unreadable gaze. “This will be acceptable,” he said in his soft, even voice. 

“What?” said Sylvain. “She’s playing us.”

“How?” said Dedue. “A general for a general. A life for a life. Where is the deception in that?”

“You think you know me, Sylvain,” Hilda said, pouting her lips. “But five years is a long time. Besides, you’ve never had a problem letting a pretty girl play you.” 

“Five years _ is _a long time,” he agreed, raising his eyebrows. “It’s not just girls anymore.”

Felix and Ingrid both turned red.

“As fascinating as your sex life is, Sylvain," said Claude, "we’re getting off-topic."

“Right, right. Let’s get back to the part where you’re playing us.” 

“How about this,” said Hilda, “we’ll even let your guy be armed, while little old me is completely weaponless and harmless.”

“This seems entirely reasonable,” said Dedue. “We accept your terms. Hilda will stay with Ingrid, Felix and Sylvain while I go with you to see Prince Dimitri.” 

“Why you?” snapped Felix. 

“You can all go, one at a time,” said Hilda. “I’ll just hang out down here. And please, take your time. The longer you all take, the longer I get out of doing work.” 

Claude stood up. “All right, then. It’s settled. After you, Dedue.” He clasped Hilda’s shoulder as he walked out. Let it linger just a beat longer than he should. And then he was gone. 

_ Now— _

The Faerghus detachment are a few yards away in the trees, between the disguised Golden Deer and the main Leicester army. Felix, Ingrid and Sylvain have bags under their eyes from the long march. Dedue looks the same. 

He greets her with a short nod and launches right into it: 

“We cannot ride under the Leicester banner.”

“We are knights of Faerghus,” says Ingrid. “We will ride under the blue lion banner.” 

Hilda sighs. “You’re not gonna help me talk them out of this, Sylvain?”

Sylvain shrugs. “It’s what Dimitri would have done, so… fuck it. We want our banners.” 

“Welll… but what if you all rode under the Leicester banner for this first charge, while you’re pretending to chase us, and then when we get inside the fort and pull off our disguises and open the gate, and _ then _you raise the Faerghus banner, when the surprise of it will really knock them over, you know?”

“Also it doesn’t matter what kind of cloth we wave around while we’re killing each other,” Felix says, arms crossed as he sits on a stump removed from the others. 

Hilda snorts. “Talk about unlikely allies.” 

“I’m not your ally,” Felix spits. “You’re just a frivolous fool who thinks you can sweet-talk your way into anything you want.” 

“Ouch.” Hilda flutters her eyelids. “That hurts.” 

Felix is unmoved. “If it hurts, it’s true.” 

To keep from rolling her eyes, Hilda closes them. 

_ The red-draped room— _

_ “Hilda, we shouldn’t…” _

Deep breath. She opens her eyes again. 

“Dedue, you would do anything to support Prince Dimitri, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” he answers. 

“Wellllll, what if this is the wrong way to do it? Support him, I mean?”

“I realize it would seem that way to you—”

“No, I mean… Forget about me. What if this—all of this— is just the wrong way to achieve your goals?”

“If I die today, I will die for my principles.” 

“Die and fail.”

“It may not be victory, but it will not be true failure either, because the ones I love will know that my final actions were done for love of them.” 

_ A soft rumble of a voice in the low candlelight— _

_ “Hilda, we shouldn’t—” _

“You’re making this sooooo much harder than it has to be,” Hilda says. “But fine. What if your battalions rode bannerless until we reveal our trap? Then you can raise the blue lion alongside the golden deer.” 

Dedue considers for a moment. “A clever solution. I accept. May I say one more thing?”

“Of course.”

“In this case, compromise is acceptable, but if you have no one in your life for whom you would follow to the bitter end, come what may, then I pity you.” 

_ —The red-draped room, bare skin and heavy-lidded eyes, the smell of must and blood and him, it all returns like a headache that was never truly gone.— _

Hilda smiles her brightest smile. “Do you think? I wouldn’t know anything about that. Good-bye, Dedue. Oh, uh, fight well.” 

She turns on her heel and flees back toward the Golden Deer. 

Sunrise should be almost over by now, but instead the trees are darker than before. Clouds, gray and heavy, are rolling in over the blushing sky. 

It’s got to be fucked up to feel like this before a _ battle_, of all things, but she can’t stop thinking about—

_ Three days earlier— _

Hilda’s room had become a makeshift tailor’s workshop. Adrestian soldiers' uniforms, some of them still smelling faintly of blood and grime, hung in rows from the rafters, so many that Hilda had to crawl to reach her bed. 

Bed. The thought was almost enough to make her drop to her knees. It was almost midnight and Hilda could barely see her own stitches anymore. 

She took a moment to breathe. Leonie, Marianne, Ignatz and Lysithea's disguises were finished, all fitted to their wearer's body, any conspicuous tears and burns mended. Raphael's still needed some work; even the biggest uniform they had recovered still wasn't big enough to fit his massive shoulders and towering frame, and Hilda had had to pull apart a whole second uniform to get enough fabric to let out Raphael's shoulders and torso. If she buckled down she could probably get that done tonight—

A knock at the door. 

"Come in."

"It's Claude."

"Come in."

Only then did the door open a crack. Claude's hair, usually pushed back with such careful carelessness, fell limply into his face. 

It made her smile in spite of herself. 

"You're late." 

His lips tilted, too tired to be charming. "Yeah."

"Like four hours late."

“I make no excuses. I can only throw myself upon your mercy.” 

“My mercy, huh? I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, on second thought I take that back.” 

“Too late!” 

“Shit.” 

Hilda giggled as she stretched her arms over her head. Talking to him was surprisingly easy, considering they hadn't really talked since he roped her into this whole disguise mess. “Alllll right. Hop up here on my stool.” Claude pushed aside some of the uniforms hanging from the ceiling in order to step onto the low footstool Hilda indicated as she rifled through the untailored uniforms. “Okay, what are your measurements?”

“Uh…”

“Never mind, I’ve got a… I mean, I can guess.” 

She took a moment to banish the blush from her face before turning around to hold uniforms up to Claude’s shoulders. 

“Hm… Okay, this one.” 

“Do I need to—put it on?” Claude said, in his ‘studiously neutral’ voice. 

“Well, yeah.”

“Okay.” 

Claude started unbuttoning his coat, and Hilda must have been more tired than she thought, if she forgot ‘try this on’ meant ‘take off what you’re currently wearing’ and now Claude was stripping in her bedroom—

He was shirtless, holding his coat and undershirt in his hand. It was just like months ago, when they had first returned to the monastery, when she had walked in on him changing, but now Claude looked thinner, the lines of his abs both fainter and harsher. 

He looked at her, and his eyes were dim in the reddish light. “Uh, could you—”

“Oh! Sure.” Hilda took his coat and shirt from him and set them on her desk. 

“Pants, too?”

“I’m afraid so.” 

“No problem.” 

Claude shucked his pants without fanfare and then he was standing on a stepstool in the middle of her room in only his underwear. 

He still smelled the same. 

Why could she smell his skin from two feet away? 

Claude put the Adrestian uniform on far too quickly and only then did he meet her gaze, holding his arms out like a scarecrow. 

“How’s this?”

“Good, good.” Hilda fumbled for her pincushion and her measuring tape. “Yup, good. Okay, let’s see what we’re working with…” 

She reached for his hips. Meant only to pinch the loose fabric at his waist. Caught the edge of his hipbones with her fingertips. 

Claude shifted his feet. 

“Yup, definitely got to take this in a bit!” Her laugh sounded forced even to her. She shut her mouth and pinned the fabric, careful not to poke Claude. 

Although now that she thought about it…

Hilda moved behind Claude, looped her arms under his—close enough to feel the warmth of him—wrapped the measuring tape around his chest and pulled it a bit too tight. 

He grunted. His chest was broader than she thought.

"Mhm," she said, pretending to note the number. "Good, good. Okay, next..." She pinched the fabric under his arm and pinned it together. But this time, she let the pin prick the skin under his armpit, just to see what would happen. 

He flinched. She could his shudder, even through the fabric. 

“Sorry!” she said, all smiles. 

She wanted to prick him again. 

Hems! Hems were safe. Hilda crouched down—

And now she was kneeling at Claude’s feet. 

Above her, Claude inhaled through his nose. Soft, like a sigh. 

The red fabric of the tunic skirt just passed his knees. Several inches too long. She folded the fabric up to the tops of his thick rider’s thighs. Was it her imagination and the dim candlelight, or were they trembling? 

She pinned up half the hem. Shuffled around on her knees to reach his other side. Head bowed to hide her burning cheeks. Her fingers passed just close enough to brush against the fine hairs on his thighs. She prepped another pin—

“Ah!” 

He twitched again, and the backs of her fingers touched his skin, hard and searing-hot, as his little yelp of pain shot through her. She had pricked him again. 

“Are you doing this on purpose?” An attempt at levity, but his voice was scraped raw. 

“No,” she protested, pinning the fabric correctly at last, and then she made a terrible mistake. 

She looked up at him. 

The forced smile on his face died at once. The candlelight danced over his neck as he swallowed. 

“I’m… I’m done.” Hilda said. “With the pins.” She didn’t get up. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So… I can…” 

He gestured at his chest. 

“Yeah.”

He swallowed again. Then grabbed the fabric at his shoulders, and Hilda watched, kneeling, as he pulled the tunic over his head. 

She wanted to drag pins across the swells and ridges of his chest. 

Dark-eyed, wordless, bare-chested, he held out the tunic to her, and only then did Hilda slowly rise to her feet. With him still on the stepstool, her face came up to the middle of his chest. 

She took the tunic from him. She didn’t move. 

“Claude.” The tone of her own voice surprised her. It sounded like pleading. She was horrified—but just for a moment, because Claude’s corded arms flexed as he clenched his fists. 

“Hilda,” he said, his voice hoarse. He bowed his head to look down at the inch of space between her chin and his bare chest. “We… we shouldn’t.” 

“What if—” she cleared her throat, started again. “What if we die at Merceus?”

Claude stepped forward off the stepstool, gently bumping his chest against hers. He kicked the stool aside, looked down. Gave a single soft chuckle. “What if we don’t?”

And that—

That broke the spell. Dulled the red-tinged candlelight, muffled the war familiar scent of him, Filled her with dread, gray and quivering. Because what if they did survive, and had to talk about what had happened here in this room between them, and Hilda had to disappoint him again? 

He saw it in her eyes. 

He kissed her cheek. “Good night, Hilda.” 

And he was gone. 

_ Now— _

Hilda touches her cheek. The skin is cold, slightly clammy from the early morning chill. 

She looks up. The distant flags are like scrapes of old blood against the dark sky. Everything is gray—everything but a sliver of sky in the east that gives way to yellow-white fog. 

A horn blows.

It’s time. 

Time to march on Fort Merceus. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, everyone! I was traveling and then fighting jet lag. Also i got kind of nervous about this chapter for some reason, but now i'm forcing myself to post it before I can keep noodling. Not too much longer now! The blue lions won't be showing up too much more now; i didn't even intend for them to be in this fic at all but then there was Character Development. But while we're talking about Blue Lions, this fic does contain background Sylvain/Felix/Ingrid throuple and blink-and-you-miss-it genderqueer Ingrid. If you like that ship, check out my other fic, Comrades in Arms. If you don't, no worries! Stay with me in Hildaude hell! 
> 
> Also come say hi on Twitter @cdromelle


	8. Fallen Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disaster strikes at the Battle of Merceus, and Hilda finds herself on the other side of a line she drew a long time ago.

The plan to infiltrate Fort Merceus worked too well. In hindsight, they should have been suspicious. 

But it wasn’t until the Death Knight fled that Hilda knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. 

She didn’t see the violet rings in the sky. She barely heard Claude’s shouted order: “Everyone, evacuate the fort, now! Retreat!” She only felt the battlements tremble, heard a distant roar and clatter of stone against stone, and when she turned around, smoke billowed from the village south of Merceus. 

The evacuation was quick: the rumble of marching feet drowned out by distant explosions, the shimmer and glow of warp spells, the unnatural light prickling through the sky. 

Hilda is one of the last ones to file out of the courtyard when she sees, above her, white wings parting smoke. Three soldiers scramble off Claude’s wyvern’s back, presumably rescued from some already-crumbling tower, and as they sprint for the gate Claude takes wing again, soaring back toward the worst of the destruction. 

Behind it, purple rings appear. 

“Claude--” Hilda starts, knowing he can’t hear her. A javelin of light appears amidst the rings and the wyvern bobs in the air, drops into a spin. The javelin flashes by, misses the wyvern, smashes into a tower so hard the shock blasts the wyvern back like a leaf in a hurricane wind.

“Claude!” 

The wyvern arcs through the rubble-strewn sky, wings limp, not flapping. Falling fast. If she can just keep him in sight--

The next thing she knows she’s on her knees, blinking darkness away from her eyes. Her head throbs. A wet drip down her cheek. A fist-sized piece of rubble with a red smear next to her foot. 

She gets up, trips, gets up again. Where is he? She can’t see him anymore. Hilda fumbles for her shield, holds it up over her head as she staggers to her feet. 

If the wyvern’s path didn’t change he must be on the other side of this crater where the fort’s southern wall used to be. She scrambles over the worst of the rubble and there--

The wyvern on its side, its body heaving with each pained breath, the white scales around its muzzle pink with blood. Its rider nowhere to be seen, until the beast lifts its enormous, torn wing, and there, lying on his side, is—

“_Claude_!”

She collapses next to his head and his eyes crack open. He frowns. 

“Expected you to… retreat…” 

His laugh turns into a cough. His clothes are streaked with dirt but there isn’t too much blood, save a trickle coming out of his mouth. 

Hilda laughs, high-pitched and breathless. “I thought you like being chased?”

He laughs, tries to sit up. Convulses in pain. 

“Pretty sure I’m an easy catch right now.”

Hilda rises up on her heels to look him over and her heart stops. Out of his back protrudes a circular tube of metal. A flagpole from the fort; it must have been blasted loose when the javelin struck the tower. 

“Ohhh-kay. Okay. Okay. Yup, super-easy. So easy even I would go for it.” 

“It’s that bad, huh?” he says. The trickle of blood on his lips is even thicker now. 

“Bad? What? It’s barely a scratch. You’re just easy in general. Uh, I mean, like easy-going. Anyway, uh, I’m going to carry you, just to be— just like as a joke. Okay?”

In answer he coughs again. Blood spatters from his lips. 

“Okay,” says Hilda. “I’m sorry.” 

First she fishes out the compass she knows he keeps in his belt, then pulls on his legs until he’s lying in an L-shape, grabs his shoulder and pulls him into a seated position. Claude screams through clenched teeth but there’s no other way—careful to avoid the metal pole, Hilda slips one hand under his arms to drag him onto her back, then grabs his knees and pushes out of her squat to her feet, with him draped over her shoulders like a dead deer. 

“Bye, Barbie,” she says to the wyvern, “I’ll come back for you, okay?”

The wyvern lets out a whumpf, flashing bloodstained teeth. 

Hilda’s thighs burn already but she breaks into a run despite it, using the compass to guide her through the smoke. Where's Marianne? Is she even alive? Did she make it out--?

Something in Hilda’s belly feels… loose. Slick and slipping around as she runs. Could it be from the Thoron that hit her what seems like hours ago? No time. Keep running. The Alliance camp is on the other side of the fort, so back through the smoke, back through the rubble and burning rafters. 

If only the ground would hold still. It’s not shaking, not anymore--the whistle-crash of the javelins is finally over--but it bobs and weaves as she runs--

She stumbles and Claude whimpers. 

“Hilda… put me down…” 

“No,” she pants. 

“Hil--” 

“Shut up.” 

Pain lances through her side and she almost drops him again, has to fall to her knees to keep him steady. When she tries to rise again her knees buckle and she topples. She could throw out an arm to break her fall, but instead she keeps a hold of Claude, and the mud crashes up to meet her shoulder. 

When she opens her eyes, it takes a few moments for Claude’s face to stop swimming in front of her. 

He smirks, his teeth smeared with blood. 

“Guess we should’ve...”

_ What if we die? _

_ What if we don’t? _

Guess they should have. Since they’re both going to die here. 

Lying together in the mud and dust, her watching Claude bleed out in front of her before she follows him. 

“Claude,” she says, voice catching. “I messed up. I messed up.” 

After everything, after all she did to avoid this, to avoid disappointing him, to avoid failure, she let him down when he needed her the most. 

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he can’t. But his eyes are still clear and focused, and she can feel his fingers gently squeeze hers. 

Not asking for anything. 

Just a little press of warmth. 

* * *

_ Five years ago: _

_ “Would you die for someone?” _

_ Claude chuckled, low and rusty in his throat. Instead of answering, he stretched out his arm, let his hand flop onto Hilda’s stomach, palm up. She took one more pull of their blunt, then placed it between his fingers. _

_ They’re lying on the roof of the student barracks again. _

_ Claude took a long pull of the blunt, pursed his lips, and let the puff of smoke loose into the cold night air. “Depends on the person,” he said finally. _

_ “But you would do it.” _

_ “Depends on the person.” _

_ “Wow, okay.” She giggled. “That’s so stupid.” _

_ “Hey!” _

_ “Why would you die for someone else? Then you’d be dead.” _

_ He took another drag. “You’re high.” Blew out the smoke. _

_ “So are you!” _

_ “Yeah, but I handle it better than you do.” _

_ “Bullshit. Share, by the way.” _

_ He handed the blunt back to her and she took another pull. The smoke was acrid against the back of her throat: a little bite, a little tingle. She exhaled. _

_ “Well. I wouldn’t do it.” _

_ “Wouldn’t risk your life for any of your fellow Golden Deer?” _

_ “I mean, I guess I’d risk it, sure. But like, fully die for someone? I don’t think so.” _

_ Claude tilted his head to look at her. “Hilda,” he said, with the solemnity of the very stoned, “you are full of shit.” _

* * *

Hilda sits up. 

Every nerve in her body lights up, but she’s kneeling now, by Claude’s side. He wheezes as she slips her arms under the deadweight of his arms and knees. 

She screams as she pushes to her feet with him in her arms. Takes a step. Another. 

The only thing that matters in the world is to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

Not because it will save them. It’s too late for that. She’s already failed. She's beyond failure. She knows that. 

It’s because she wants Claude to know… wants him to feel… 

Another step. Another. She loses count. It doesn’t matter anyway. This is the only way to say what she needs to say to him. 

She doesn’t hear Marianne’s scream. All Hilda knows is a flash of light, and then nothing. 

_ Sorry, Claude… _

* * *

She smells dust. 

It’s wet and thick, like clay. Like mortar. 

Oh, it’s the South Tower. She’s back on the South Tower in Garreg Mach, repairing the damage caused by Edelgard’s attack five years ago. 

“Fine, fine,” Hilda grumbles. “I’ll fix it.”

“No, Hil—What? Hilda, wake up.”

She opens her eyes. 

She’s lying on a bedroll in an army tent. It’s dark, the only light a flickering lantern hanging from the crossed posts holding up the tent’s canvas. 

Next to her, little more than a dark lump on a bedroll, is Claude.

“Hey,” he says. His voice quiet, raspy, weak. But alive. 

“Hey yourself,” she says. Frowns at the noise coming out of her own throat. 

“You saved me,” Claude says. “We didn’t die. You saved me.” 

“I messed up."

"No you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

He's quiet, for a moment. Then: "We're alive."

"Yeah."

Memories come back in pieces. Foremost among them a bloodstained grin, a hoarse scrape of a voice. _Guess we should've..._

Hilda tilts her head. "Do you still wish we..."

Claude’s eyes are bright in the dim light. She’s close enough to see every detail of his irises, the emerald green crisscrossed with darker lines and pools of color, mottled and cracked like broken glass.

"Yeah," he says. "Do you?"

Even now, her "yes" catches on her tongue, can't leave her lips without dragging a tear out with it. "Yes."

"Even though we lived?"

"Especially because we lived."

He laughs, just a breath, an exhalation through his nose, and his eyes close as if the effort tired him out. Then he cracks one eye. “What... what do you want in return?"

"What?"

"For saving me."

Her throat works. "Nothing, Claude, I—Just get better, okay? That's what I want."

"That all?"

"Yes, now shut up and rest, will you?"

He chuckles, low and rough. "I can do that for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! Took longer than I thought to get here; the Blue Lions tangent took me by surprise :)  
As usual I skipped over the parts that you all presumably already know from the game itself.  
Thank you to [Itsyaboysora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsYaBoySora/works) for beta'ing this chapter and giving notes about concussions!  
Also, the chapter title is the name of Claude's Failnaut-unique combat art.  
Next is more smut ~  
I love comments! Leave me a comment!


	9. The Value of Hard Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A knock at the door. “Hilda?” It’s Judith. “Have you seen Claude?”  
“Um….” She glances at him. “Yeah, he said he was gonna go for an early morning ride.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah.” Then, louder, to cover the sound of Claude rolling out of her bed and reaching for his trousers, “He asked me if I wanted to come and I was like no way, I need my beauty rest—”  
“But his wyvern is still injured….”  
“Oh, he said it was a horseback ride. I bet he’s already back at the stables by now.”  
“All right…”  
Footsteps move away from the door.  
Claude huffs out a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the real chapter summary is:  
-2 important conversations  
-a bunch of indulgent fluff an editor would make me cut but I do what i want  
-smut~
> 
> also please note the updated tags!

The next time Hilda wakes up, the ground is shaking again. 

It sends a spike of fear through her sluggish mind. The javelins of light that destroyed Merceus—! Why can’t she move her arms?

But Claude is next to her, fast asleep and tucked away in his bedroll, and so is she, and the ground is moving because it’s the floor of a wagon. A small covered wagon whose sides are piled with sacks of oats and apples and dried meat. There’s barely enough room on the ground for hers and Claude’s bedrolls. 

She puts her head back down. 

Claude has slept through it all, his breath a soft snuffle against the bedroll tucked up to his chin. His cheeks are sunken and he has bags under his eyes, but he’s alive. He’s _ alive. _

Hilda could watch him sleep all day. 

She wakes up twice more: once to find her fingers interlaced with a still-sleeping Claude’s while Marianne waves her hands over them, her fingers glowing with magic; and finally by Lysithea, who casts a few perfunctory healing spells on the two of them, holds a water skein up to Claude’s lips for him to drink and then tells Hilda, without any of Marianne’s grace or bedside manner, that she could probably walk now, if she wasn’t feeling too lazy.

“Is that a ‘could’ or a ‘should’?” Hilda asks. Claude chuckles groggily. 

Lysithea is less charmed. “Do what you wish. I’m too busy to argue semantics with you.” 

And she hops out of the wagon. 

“Hey, wait!” With a touch to Claude’s forehead and a “be right back,” Hilda follows her out. Her legs buckle a little bit and she grips the wagon’s side. “Do you—have a sec?”

“Technically,” Lysithea says with the pinched look she always gets when anyone mentions time. “Walk with me?”

“Sure. Sure.” 

Hilda totters after her as Lysithea strides up the column of soldiers. It’s near dusk; the Bridge of Myrddin looms in the distance. 

“I just—I just wanted to say—Oh no, I’m out of breath—”

“Careful,” Lysithea says, her brow furrowed. “You really exerted yourself back there. You shouldn't overdo it.” 

“Trust me, I have no intention of disobeying the doctor’s orders.” Hilda grips Lysithea’s shoulder, trying not to make it too obvious that she’s steadying herself. “I just wanted to say—about you and Cyril—”

Lysithea turns bright crimson. “There is nothing to discuss—”

“I was wrong.” 

That stops Lysithea in her tracks. “What?”

“I was—Lysithea, I was so, so wrong. Cyril is great, and you’re great, and if you two like each other you should—you should go for it, you know?”

“But,” Lysithea gapes, “my crests—”

“Tell him,” says Hilda. “And if he doesn’t want to be with you, then whatever, it’s his loss. But you should—you should try, you know?”

“I—I don’t know—”

“Come on, say you’ll do it. Say you’ll go for it.” 

“D-didn’t you just admit you give bad advice?”

“I diiiiiid, but this time it’s good advice! And remember to stand with your back foot pointed out. And tilt your head to the side a little and twist just a little bit of hair around your finger, like this—”

“All right!” Lysithea’s cheeks are even redder than before. “I am going to escort you back to your wagon, because clearly you still need rest. And then—”

“You’ll talk to Cyril?”

“I’ll—” she ducks her head, as if checking whether anyone is listening. “I’ll talk to Cyril.” 

“Yay!” 

“You are so embarrassing. Go back to your wagon, I don’t have time to babysit you anymore.” 

Hilda means to go back to the wagon. But on the way she comes across an uncovered cart overflowing with the limbs and tail and great snoring head of Claude’s wyvern, Barbie, alive and dozing after Marianne and Dorte rescued her. 

She meant to only give Barbie a few scratches on her bone-white claw, but then an hour passes and before Hilda knew it the Bridge of Myrddin’s towering stone archways were above her and she’s being recruited into fetching water from the river for the wyverns, which she’s only doing because Barbie is pretty cute, actually, and Claude will never believe that she did chores without protest so it’ll be fun to tell him—

“Hilda!” 

She stops halfway back from the riverside with her bucket of water. It’s Cyril, striding toward her, his brow creased and his eyes stony. 

“You're the reason Lysithea--You told Lysithea she shouldn’t be with me?”

“Oh! Y-yes, but—”

“After all that patronizing bullshit you gave me about being one of the ‘good eggs?’ About being ‘not like other Almyrans’?”

“Cyril, I’m so sorry, and that was really stupid of me, I had literally never met any Almyrans other than you and—Well, and now I know Nader and the Immortal Corps and I know how silly—how awful I was. And I didn’t tell Lysithea that because you’re Almyran, I said it because of her crests...which was also extremely, extremely stupid, and oh, Cyril, please forgive me.” 

Cyril frowns, puts his hands on his hips. “You also told Lysithea that you were wrong and… and that she should be with me. If she wants.”

“I... did.” 

“Yeah.” Cyril exhales, still frowning. “Well, I don’t have time to be mad at you, Hilda.”

“You… don’t?”

“Nope. I gotta win this war and get started on finding a cure for having two crests.” 

“Cyril,” Hilda breathes. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah.” He gives a flat little smile. “Felt good to get that off my chest though.” 

——————

The next night, a victory feast greets them upon their arrival at Garreg Mach. Or at least, what was supposed to be a victory feast; a heavy rain slows the already-crawling army caravan and by the time they arrive at the gates, late on a tuesday night, the food is cold and some of the monastery garrison (Manuela) are already drunk. 

Nevertheless, most of the army marches gratefully into the dining hall, Raphael leading the charge and Claude close behind, already surrounded by Nader, Judith, two minor Alliance lords and several merchants. 

Hilda watches them all file inside. “Are you going?” she asks Marianne. 

“Um,” says Marianne. “Actually, I thought I would… go check on Prince Dimitri.” 

“Aww,” Hilda coos. 

Marianne blushes, but she smiles. “Yeah.”

Hilda watches Marianne until she disappears down the monastery’s dark corridors. Then she heads into the dining hall, but stops in the doorway. 

Her eyes find Claude first. The crowd around him has already grown to include Lorenz and a rather bemused-looking Dedue, kept in place by Claude’s hand on his shoulder. Raphael is handing out flagons of mead, Leonie has her arm around Ignatz, and Lysithea is sitting on Cyril’s lap feeding him bites of cake, both of them blushing redder than Hilda ever thought possible. 

She wants to join them. Or rather—wants to want it. She does love a party. Just… not tonight. 

But then she looks back at Claude and their eyes meet. His smile doesn’t falter, but she knows what that look means. 

She trots over and inserts herself between Claude and a plaintive-looking merchant who’s saying, “My lord, we just can’t support the new routes at this time—”

“Don’t sell yourself short, now. I’m sure you can open a route to Duscur. Unless you don’t want your merchant license renewed…”

“This is an undue burden, my lord…”

“Did I just hear someone talk about burdens?” Hilda says. “At a party? How horrible, don’t you think, Duke Riegan?”

“How right you are, Lady Goneril,” Claude says. “We’re done here anyway.”

The merchant stomps away and Judith quickly takes his place. “Now, about the reinforcements from Daphnel—”

“Hilda, are you thirsty?” Claude asks her. 

Hilda is sure if she has anything to drink she will fall asleep on her feet. She beams. “Aw, Claude, how sweet of you to notice!” 

“I’ll get you something. Please excuse me, Judith.” Claude slips away. 

Judith crosses her arms. “Much of a beer-drinker, Miss Goneril?”

Hilda twists her hair. “Oh! That’s right. I don’t like beer. I should go remind him.” 

Claude is waiting for her just behind a pillar. “Whew. Thank you.” 

“Any time.” 

“Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes, _ please. _”

Back in Hilda’s room, Claude drops onto her bed with a pronounced “Oof,” his legs off the side and his head against the wall. Hilda sits down on the floor next to him, her head on his knee. 

He smiles down at her. “Are you not joining me on the bed because you don’t want to get your dirty travel clothes on your sheets?”

She smiles back up at him. “You know me so well.” 

Claude heaves a sigh. “I’ll get up—”

“No, it’s okay!” Hilda stands up. “Just stay there—at the foot of the bed—and I’ll be right back.” 

“Okay.”

“Don’t put your head on the pillow!”

“Okay!” 

When she returns to her room with a basin of hot water from the bathhouse, Claude’s eyes are closed. 

“Wake up,” she says. “Spa time.” 

She has him lie down on the floor and tip his head in the basin so she can wash his hair, then he helps her do hers, splashing water on the floor as her long locks make the basin overflow. Then it’s time to comb scented oils into their hair; Hilda plaits hers and pins it up around her head, and gives Claude a little braid of his own like he used to have in school. Then she leaves to get another basin of clean hot water for their skin. 

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” Claude laughs when she returns. 

“A beauty routine is very important, Claude,” she says. 

“Even in the middle of a war?”

“Especially in the middle of a war.” His eyes flicker at the sudden sharpness in her tone. She cuts her gaze to the side. “It’s the only thing that feels… normal, anymore.” 

He hums in response. “Well… you got an extra washcloth?”

“Not a clean one. We’ll have to share.” 

“Okay.” 

“Is that okay?”

“I’m okay with it if you are.” 

“Okay.” Hilda touches the lacings of her dress. “I’m just going to, like, take my clothes off, then.” 

“Cool. Me too.” 

She undresses casually, almost slowly, not looking at him but not averting her eyes either. With Claude in his trousers and she in her leggings, she picks up the washcloth and runs it down his back. His body has a few more marks on it since she last saw it, most notably the large, puckered mass of barely-healed scar tissue on his back where—Hilda swallows—the flagpole had impaled him. She traces it with her fingertip. He jumps slightly at the touch, then the lines and knots of his back relax. 

“Does it still hurt?” she whispers. 

“It’s sore. Broke a few ribs, Marianne says. I have to see Manuela one more time tomorrow and then I’ll be okay.”

He draws his ankles in under his thighs, takes a deep breath, and lets his head hang forward as she continues to wash him, slipping her arms under his to reach his chest and stomach. 

“My turn,” he says softly, after a moment. She twists so she’s now sitting with her back to him, her legs tucked underneath her. 

Like her, he starts with her back, gentle over the lightning burn on her side, then moves outward. 

“Mind if I—”

“Go ahead.” 

He cups her breasts in his free hand, one by one, and runs the washcloth over them, his touch only barely lingering as he moves on to her stomach and hips. 

“Hey, Claude?”

The heat of his body is a warm wall behind her. “Yeah?”

“When we’re done washing I’ll let you onto my bed, but I’m too tired to do anything but sleep.” 

“Me too,” he says, relieved. “That sounds great.”

“Great. Now stand up and take off your pants so I can un-sexually wash your dick.” 

It’s impossible not to notice that he’s half-hard when he slips off his trousers and underthings. Hilda tries to hide her face, but he must catch a glimpse of the curve of her lips. “What are you smiling about?”

She blinks up at him. “Who, me?” 

He arches an eyebrow, his cheeks pink but his expression unembarrassed. “I can’t help it.” 

She gives a little toss of her head as she scrubs the washcloth down his legs. “Neither can I.” 

“Ha.” 

An experimental drag of the washcloth over his groin produces a shiver but no other reaction. Hilda bites her lip. “I mean, if you want me to—”

“No, that’s okay.” 

“Okay, I just—” She trails off, her face going red. “I thought that means a guy, like, _ needs _to—”

“No, really, it just… does that.” Claude ruffles his damp hair, truly red-faced now. “Ah… my turn, now?”

She stands and Claude kneels, and it should be embarrassing to have his face so close to her hips, his hands on her hairy legs, but instead his touch lights up something warm inside her. Like an ache, but without need. She feels like every sense is heightened, like every part of her can sense every part of him. 

She could cry, if she let herself. 

She almost does when he presses a close-mouth kiss to her hip and then stands. The washcloth lands on the floor as she presses her face to his chest and he envelops her in his arms, the warm line of their bodies pressed together. Hilda didn’t know nakedness could be this non-sexual but still so intimate. Hopefully he’s too damp to notice the little tear that drops from her eyelashes into his chest hair. She wipes it away with her cheek as she pushes him into the bed. 

They fall asleep with her head pillowed on his chest. 

Morning announces itself with concerned murmurs outside Hilda’s door. 

She lifts her head. Her cheek is wet. Oh no, she drooled on his chest. She wipes it away; it wakes him. She grins, pretends she was just caressing him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, voice hoarse with sleep. “What’s going on?”

A knock at the door saves her from embarrassment. “Hilda?” It’s Judith. “Have you seen Claude?”

“Uh….” She glances at him. “Yeah, he said he was gonna go for an early morning ride.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Then, louder, to cover the sound of Claude rolling out of her bed and reaching for his trousers, “He asked me if I wanted to come and I was like no way, I need my beauty rest—”

“But his wyvern is still injured….”

“Oh, he said it was a horseback ride. I bet he’s already back at the stables by now.”

“All right…” 

Footsteps move away from the door. 

Claude huffs out a laugh. “Thank you.” He pulls on his shirt. “I should get going. Judith has me scheduled for meetings in the cardinals’ room all day.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Funny you should say that. I was just about to ask you to come along.” 

Hilda pulls the covers over her head. 

“We’ll play it like this: when I give a sign, you get me out of the conversation. Just like you did last night and this morning, okay?”

Hilda pokes her head out of the covers. “What’s the sign?”

“Hm… how about… when I rub my beard, like this?” Claude runs his thumb and forefinger over the hair on his jawline with a wink and a roguish grin. 

She giggles. “Is the wink part of it?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“It’s kind of obvious…”

“Okay, no wink—”

“But I like it.”

“Wink it is.” 

Hilda throws off the covers and stretches out, still naked, on the bed. “I can’t believe you’re trying to get me dressed right now though.” 

“Ah.” Claude crosses the room to her, plants a hand on the headboard and bends down over her. “Me neither.”

“Hmm…” Hilda leans up, closing the distance until their noses are just a whisper apart. “I guess I’ll have to think of it as a chase.” 

“That’s my girl.” Claude straightens. “See you in the cardinals’ room in half an hour?”

“I’ll be there. Hey, Claude?”

At the door, he turns. 

“You don’t need to touch your beard or wink or anything,” says Hilda. “When you want me to do my Hilda thing, just look at me, and I’ll know. I’m pretty good at reading you by now.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, you are, aren’t you?” 

Council meetings aren’t so bad when she thinks of them as a game about watching for Claude’s face for the signs apparently only she can see. 

That evening, as they’re finally leaving the dining hall: 

“Duke Riegan! A word?”

Claude and Hilda exchange glances. 

Then Hilda slings her arm around Claude’s waist, drags his arm over her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she says to the courtier, “the Duke has overtaxed himself and some of his injuries from Merceus have reopened.” 

On cue, Claude slumps against her, his free hand going to his ribs. “No, Hilda—I’m all right. I can… pull through…” 

“No, my dear duke!” Hilda cries. She rounds on the courtier. "He just never thinks of himself, and I—" A tear drips down her cheek; she wipes it away and clutches Claude's hand. “For once in your life, don’t be a hero!” 

The courtier backs away, hands raised. “I will return tomorrow.” 

Claude nods at him, the perfect mix of weary and brave. “Thank you.” 

“Come on, Duke Riegan,” says Hilda, “time for bed.” 

They keep up the act, Claude limping, Hilda carrying most of his weight, all the way to the dormitory stairs. At the door to the upper level, Hilda glances around. “Quick, quick!” 

She throws open the door and they run upstairs, still holding each other, and don’t stop until they’re in Claude’s room, panting and leaning against the cabinets under the windows.

“Good—good escape,” Claude pants. 

“Fuck, I’m tired,” she gasps, clutching her ribs. “Ow, ow, cramp…”

Claude runs his knuckles over her damp cheek. "Fake tears and everything. Incredible."

She lets out a breathless laugh that sends a stab of pain through her side. “Sometimes you gotta put in a little work to get out of a lot of work, you know?”

“Yeah,” he says. His breath tickles her ear. His arm is still around her shoulder. “I know.” 

She turns her head and kisses him. 

His cheeks are fuzzy from a week without shaving, his breath a little stale from the long day, but the rush of it hits her like a shot of whiskey, rough and tingling and warm. He bites at her upper lip and she seizes the chance to slip her tongue past his teeth; he laughs at her, which is infuriating, but then leans in, pulling her flush against him as he opens for her, lets her bite his lips and lick his tongue as he rocks them back and forth. 

“Mmmph… Hil….” he says, muffled, “Hilda, Hilda—” and then his hands slip over her hips and ass to grab behind her thighs, lift her up to sit on his desk, his hips between her knees. 

She locks her ankles around him, one heel digging into the top of his ass, and buries both hands in his hair to keep him close, keep his mouth on hers, while his hands trace their way up her back, to her neck, to cup her cheeks. It’s so… so tender; she doesn’t know what to do with all these feelings, so she tightens her grip on his hair and kisses him even harder, trying to pour everything he does to her back into him.

It’s only when he pulls back that she stops the kiss. Claude’s pupils are blown, his thick hair tousled 

“We have gotta get these clothes off,” he pants. 

“It’s your best plan yet,” she tells him. 

She keeps her head thrown back to kiss him and kiss him as they fumble with their clothing, plucking apart laces and unfastening buttons. When his shirt parts to reveal the deep V of his hip muscles it sends a pang through her—she saw all of this last night but now it means something else, something that has her locking her knees even tighter around his hips, locking him in place.

He puts a hand on her knee, pretends to try to pry her off. “Can barely get my pants off.” His breath hot on her face. 

She bites at his chin. “Try harder.” 

Claude yanks his trousers out from between his hips and her knees, kicks them off, and steps closer, pressing himself in between her legs—she gasps at the friction—then he grabs her ass with both hands and lifts her. 

When he spins them around, his bed is behind her. She braces herself to be thrown onto it, giggles as Claude lifts her up—then he mutters, “Shit,” and shifts her to one arm. 

Hilda looks over her shoulder, still clinging to him with both arms and legs. He’s piling up the books scattered across his mussed bedspread. 

“Let me help.”

“No, I got it.” 

Claude shoves the rest of the books over to the wall. 

“Okay—”

He deposits her on the bed more gently than she expected, puts one knee up near her hip but keeps the other planted on the ground, then bends down and kisses her—on her lips, her neck, her breasts, her ribs. She gets the idea when his mouth reaches her belly button. Gasps when it moves lower. Exhales a whimper as his lips trail through the coarse short pink hair between her legs. 

Claude pauses. Looks up at her. She sucks in another rush of air—

And lets it out in a wail as his tongue drags over her clitoris. 

He laughs into her folds, damn him, his fingers teasing at her entrance before he slips one inside. Hilda grabs his hair with both hands and pulls—not because he’s going anywhere, but just to somehow have more of him, have him closer, feel him more. 

“Another—another finger,” she pants, and he obliges, syncing his tongue and his fingers to flood her from without and within. The tide’s still low, but she knows it will come in if he keeps this up, that the high tide he’ll bring will be swift and shattering and beautiful, and…

And… 

“Claude,” she gasps, “stop.”

She whimpers when he raises his head, the loss in that moment as painful as any wound. 

“Are you okay?”

With a tug of his hair, she pulls him up to lie beside her. 

“I want to see you,” she says, and then rolls them until she’s straddling his hips, one hand bracing herself on his chest. His dick is hard and warm against her thigh; she grasps it and gives it a few experimental tugs, rolling her wrist, teasing at the foreskin. “Is this okay?”

“_ Yes _, yeah, yeah,” Claude says, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Yeah.” 

“Do you have anything to…”

“Under—nnh, fuck—under the bed.”

Hilda likes him like this. She wants more of it. Switching hands on his length, she drapes herself over his torso to reach under his bed. Her fingers find books, a box, more books, and then a small glass bottle. With a triumphant smile, Hilda sits back up, uncorks the bottle one-handed, and pours the liquid onto his cockhead. 

“Ahh!” He shudders beneath her. “Cold!”

“Oh, sorry!” Hilda drops the bottle, uses both hands to warm the liquid on his dick. “Better?”

He bucks his hips up into the clasp of her hands. “Better.” 

“Good.” Digging her toes into the mattress, Hilda rises up onto her knees, then positions his dick against her entrance and sits down, sliding him into place. 

What a view; what a perfect place to be, with his dark thick hair framing his face, his slim chest and powerful arms, flexing as clever calloused fingers seize her waist and his hips grind upward. 

He flashes her a smile, a cheeky little smile, and it brings back a memory of something Claude said more than five years ago: _ Oh, I don’t know, I’d let you grasp just about anything. My hand, my heart… _

Hilda lifts her hand from his shoulder, wobbles a bit as she loses balance atop his thrusting hips, and closes her fingers around his throat. 

He gasps, and his hips stutter to a stop. Hilda smiles, leans forward, putting a bit more weight into the hand on his neck—his eyes go wide—and then she rocks back, grinding down on his dick, and his gasp is a bit rougher, a bit more strained. 

“You like that?” she says, her voice filled with sugary innocence. 

“You,” he says, voice scraped like sand, “you remembered.” 

She has to get more noises like this out of him. Hilda rocks again, using his throat as leverage for her thrust, and his little whimper is like an arrow through her heart. 

“Tap my hand if you want me to stop, okay?”

He nods, his chin butting her hand, and grips her wrist. Bracing himself, and urging her on. 

She finds a rhythm, the pebble of his Adam’s apple slipping back and forth across the webbing between her thumb and fingers, and Claude’s eyebrows are knitted upwards, his eyes closed, his lips parted in hoarse “Oh—oh—ohs” as she rides him. Her untouched clitoris is aching, searing, but it’s not about her coming, not right now, and just watching him, feeling him, is still mesmerising in its own devouring way, everything in her devoted to this rhythm, and then—

“F-feel like a wyvern,” Claude pants out. 

Her eyebrows raise. “Um, excuse me?”

“Riding—you’re riding me.” 

His parted lips tilt upward. Proud of himself. Hilda snorts. “If you can talk, I must not be choking you hard enough.” 

She can feel his dick twitch when she says ‘choking you,’ but the roguish smirk stays intact. 

“Must not be.” 

Hilda pouts at him. “Aww, you’re making me work again.”

And she squeezes. 

She’s never seen a smirk collapse so fast. 

His breaths are in short, hoarse gasps, his Adam’s apple pinned just above her hand. He tries to swallow and the choking noise scares her; Hilda loosens her hand but right away he covers her hand with his, pushes down. 

“Keep—keep—”

So she squeezes again, not hard enough to cut off his air, but enough to make him strain. His fingers dig into her belly, the tops of her thighs, his hips stuttering as he tries to match her, and she’s not about to reject this help, not when it makes his thighs and stomach shake so beautifully. 

“Mmm… Claude… Claude…” 

His hips fall back onto the bed, no longer thrusting but still taught, still trembling, so Hilda takes over again, pushing her hips onto him, grinding him into the bed, letting him in so deep, every time, each of her movements punctuated by his breathless noises. 

He’s so beautiful. What wouldn’t she do for him?

He gasps beneath her again, and this one sounds rough, almost a gag, so she lifts her hand and he chokes in a desperate breath. 

Holds it. 

And lets it out in a hoarse cry as he comes, Hilda still moving, and all she can say is “Oh! Oh!” as he moans and shakes, chest heaving, eyelashes silver with tears. 

She holds him through it, her pace gently slowing, until she settles all her weight onto him, and he lets out one last moan and lies still. Still buried deep, but she can feel him softening just a bit, and it fills her with a sugary, gooey, ridiculous warmth. 

“Fuck, Hilda,” he murmurs, still breathing hard. “That was…” 

Through the haze of his bliss and her want, all she can do is giggle. 

He throws an arm over his eyes. “Fuck.” 

“Handsome.” She tilts her hips down, just the smallest bit, and he lets out a whispery moan. Hilda likes that. She also likes the way it makes his half-hard dick rub inside her. “Handsome leader man.” She does it again. 

Presses two fingers into her mouth, then moves them to circle her clit, her free hand leaning back to clasp his knee as she swirls. 

Ooh, she could come from this. 

She didn’t realize she had closed her eyes. She opens them to see Claude watching her, his hand now clutching his own hair. 

“You’re so hot,” he breathes. 

“Wanna help?” she pants. 

He rakes his hair back, gets another grip. “I don’t know. I really like this view.” 

“Claude!” 

“Okay, okay.” His abs ripple as he sits up, pulls her into his lap. Uses one thigh to push her up so his dick slips out, then replaces it with three fingers and resettles her on top of his thighs. 

“M-more lube,” Hilda stammers, and he spends an aching moment searching for it in the sheets before he produces the bottle and starts to remove his fingers. 

“No!” Hilda says. One hand keeping him where she wants him, other hand snatching away the bottle. She’s almost desperate enough to unstopper it with her own teeth. 

Almost.

Instead she taps the bottle against Claude’s lip and he obliges immediately, a little flash of teeth as he bites down on the cork. 

“Move,” she whispers, pushing his hand down between her legs, then releases him to maneuver the bottle, coating her fingers with the oil. 

He spares a moment to put the bottle on the bedside table, too occupied to recork it, then wraps his free arm around her back to crush her breasts against him, taking most of her weight, doing most of the work to rock her up and down on his fingers slick with her wetness and his come as she slips her lubed hand between them to touch herself, quick gliding circles around and around her clitoris, the warm ache already sublimating into that strong deep tide that brings in—brings in—

“I’ve got you,” Claude says into her ear. “Gods, you’re so beautiful. Fuck.” He shifts forward, crosses his legs beneath her ass, then pushes her—she squeaks as her back hits the bed, his fingers never leaving her, never breaking rhythm—and he all but dives forward. 

The first lick of his tongue against her clitoris makes her sob. 

Then he closes his lips around her and sucks, still rubbing his fingers deep inside her, and Hilda’s pretty sure she’s crying. 

She grinds against his face and he takes the hint, his lips leave her clitoris with a soft pop and then he licks her again, and again, and again, his fingers and his tongue all-consuming as she throws her head back and shudders apart, the orgasm pulling her apart like riptides. 

He’s still between her legs, his mouth guiding her through, until her whimpers change pitch and he remembers, he lifts his head, waits for her to draw in a shaky breath, then lowers it and licks her one last time. The tremor washes over her whole body, gives everything, takes everything, and at last she slumps against the covers. 

“That’s it… that’s my girl...” 

She's floating, she's humming, she's alive. 

He noses against her belly, his arms slipping under the arch of her lower back to cradle her waist, to plant a gentle, wet kiss to the ridge of her hip bone before he sets his head down against her belly, like she's all the pillow he'll ever need. 

Hilda is not enough to contain this glow. 

It presses against her ribs, threatens to spill over, to flow into the well-worn grooves that lead from warm joy to cold fear. Already she feels the fluttery, scratchy claws in her throat. He’s so good, he deserves someone as good as he is, after all of this, what if she messes up again—

“Claude,” she says, knows it now sounds like she's the one choking. 

And he must hear it in her voice because he lifts his head from her belly. "Hey. Hey—" Slides up her body to hover his head over hers, cupping her cheek in his hand. "Hey. It's okay."

"Sorry."

"I'm here."

"I'm… I'm here too."

Claude pokes at the wetness gathering in the divots of her cheeks. "Real tears."

She laughs in spite of herself. Pokes at the corner of his upturned mouth. "Real smile." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilda and Cyril's conversation references their C support. Hilda is terrible to him in that conversation and I thought Cyril deserved to vent about it.  
Hilda choking Claude references _their_ C support. Claude choking kink rights!!!


	10. Wherever You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shared moment at the end of a war and the beginning of something else.

“It’s over, right?” says Hilda, quiet, in the dark. 

“Yeah,” Claude whispers back. “The war is over.” 

The two of them lie in Claude’s bed, he on his back with one arm behind his head and the other around Hilda’s shoulders as she lies with her cheek against his chest and her head tucked under his chin. 

No more battles to fight. For now, at least. Outside, the victory celebration is just a faint murmur, punctuated by cheers and bursts of laughter that grow fewer and farther between. 

Inside Claude’s room, it’s just them. Bone-weary, clinging to each other and to the gentle joy of skin on skin. Hilda lazily running her fingers through the sparse hair on his chest, soft and springy. She likes the way it doesn’t quite hide the swell of his pectorals.

“Still lots of work to do,” Claude says. She can feel the vibrations of his voice through his chest. “Making peace. A real peace this time, one that will last.”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” says Hilda. 

“It can’t just be me, Hilda—”

“I know, I know, I’ll help you, of course I will—”

“I’m leaving Fodlan.” 

Hilda tilts her head up to look at him. Claude keeps his eyes doggedly on the ceiling. 

“Byleth will be the new ruler of Fodlan. But I—I want a peace that stretches beyond Fodlan. A peace that stretches—to my other homeland too.” 

He draws in a breath. Holds it. 

“I’m half-Almyran.” 

For a moment she says nothing, just continues running her fingers through his chest hair. Then she sighs, her breath ruffling the soft brown hairs between his nipples. 

“I know.” 

“You—” He goes still, then she feels the bed shift as he lifts his head. “You know? Since—since when?”

“Wellll…. You know Goneril territory is right next to Almyra.”

“But you’ve never been there. You told me.”

“No, but my parents made me go to Fodlan’s Locket since I was fourteen, to learn about the fortress. I saw a soldier once, an Almyran soldier, who had these beads in his hair, with designs I’d never seen before. You had the same bead in your hair when you arrived at the monastery.” 

Claude’s head hits the pillow with a thump as he blows out a breath. “Of course you figured it out because of my _ accessories. _”

Hilda giggles. “I have a talent.” 

“So…” Claude continues. “You’ve known all along. And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Who would I tell?”

“Your brother, for one.” 

“It’s not like I had any real proof. And… I didn’t want to hurt you. I liked you.” 

Claude sighs. “Wow. All this time I’ve been so afraid to tell you, and you already knew.” 

She raises her head to look him in the eye. “You were afraid?”

He’s wearing that guarded smile, the one that doesn’t reach his eyes, except it’s flimsier than usual. “Well, yeah. At first because you were Holst Goneril’s sister. And then… well, it crossed my mind once or twice that I could have picked a safer person to fall in love with.” 

“Claude…” Hilda rests her chin on her chest to keep looking at him. “I should have told you I knew. I didn’t realize you were… That you felt… I thought you just wanted to be mysterious.” 

“Well…” He flashes a grin. “That too.” 

“Mysterious… keeps you safe. From people like my family. People like me.” 

He doesn’t need to answer. She can tell from his expression she’s right. 

Hilda looks down, back at his chest. Lets out an exhale that stirs the hairs there. 

Then looks up. 

“Can I come with you to Almyra?”

“You want to… come to Almyra?”

“They probably wouldn’t be too pleased to see a Goneril in their land, but… maybe you could ask the king?”

“Ask the king?”

“Yeah, to let me visit. I’m not worried about my father, I’ll just sneak out or whatever, he can’t stop me. But I don’t want to, you know, just show up in Almyra and scare people. You could get an audience with the king, couldn’t you? Big mister Fodlan hero man?”

A slow grin breaks out over Claude’s face. “Well, that doesn’t sound too hard, considering the king of Almyra is my father.” 

“The king—”

“Yeah.”

“Your… _ father? _”

“Did I not mention that? Must have slipped my mind.” 

“You’re… a _ prince _?”

“What, my dashing good looks didn’t give it away?”

"So a prince… a prince..." Claude’s smirk falters as Hilda scrutinizes him. "Being a prince is a lot of work, isn't it?"

"It is the way I do it."

"So..." Hilda blushes. "So being in love with a prince is going to be a lot of work too, huh?"

Claude's eyes widen. Slowly, a smile blooms back across his lips, and he threads his fingers through her hair as if steadying himself. “Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm.” Hilda nestles her cheek back against his chest. “When do we leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Whew. Thank you very much for reading; I love and appreciate all the kudos and comments!


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